by Shelley Day
But it’s not like she’s got nowhere to go. She said so herself. She’d be alright. She wasn’t at all bothered when they got to the housing place and found it was shut. She took it in her stride. Just said she’d go back to the grandmother’s place. And off she went. Some clients would have freaked. Not Stella Moon. She might not look it, but she’s made of tough stuff. She’s obviously a coper. Come on, Gareth. It’s home time. You’ve done what you could. End of.
But tonight Gareth can’t relax. He keeps thinking about Stella Moon wandering the streets of Newcastle on her own in those stupid, flimsy clothes. He keeps seeing the skinny little shape of her in those wet clingy clothes that are too big for her and Christ knows where she got those from. And he keeps thinking about her being a convicted killer. She doesn’t seem like a killer, not that he’s met any killers before.
The training’s supposed to prepare you for all sorts, for criminals being ‘real people’ as well as criminals, which is all very fine – separate the person from the crime, etc. But that’s not the entire story, is it? It doesn’t end there. Far from it, Gareth now sees. He’s on a learning curve. They tell you how to think about this, that, or the other crime. They tell you what to think, what leads to what, they give you ways of dealing with different personalities and categories of mental illness, etc. They tell you a whole load about underlying factors, background influences, personality disorders, psychiatric syndromes – you name it… But as to how you feel – as to how you, as a Probation Officer, might actually feel, as someone who confronts a criminal, a killer, face-to-face – well, that’s a different story. The effect they actually have on you…nobody tells you sod all about that.
Gareth’s not sure what he’s feeling now the horrible panic has subsided: tiredness and turmoil, relief to be away from her, that’s the predominant feeling. But there’s worry as well, worry that she’ll not make out alright tonight, worry that Frank man she mentioned might do something… Guilt that Gareth has made a single mistake as regards the accommodation that might have massive consequences, for himself as well as Stella. It must be worry that’s causing the adrenalin that’s still churning his insides up.
Is Gareth scared of Stella? He doesn’t really believe so, but being ‘reflexive’ in this line of work is all the rage and, as a professional, he must ask himself the question. Gareth sighs. He needs a drink. It’s the only thing that’ll stop this nausea. He’ll stop off for a quick one on the way home. Or maybe not such a good idea. Never drink to drown a sorrow, his Da always says, and look at where he’s ended up. No, he should make do without the drink. The fact of the matter is Gareth is going to be effing bloody useless at this particular job if he can’t even cope with the clients without getting pissed. He’s got to get his wits about him a bit more and be more professional.
All the same, the powers that be don’t realise how these things affect you: they don’t appreciate how, day in, day out, dealing with criminal mentalities, it shifts the ground from under you, it does. Churns you right up. This job is Stressful. Stressful with a capital S. Gareth hopes it’ll get easier once he’s finished his training, but that won’t be for another year at least. He’ll feel better after a good, hot shower and something to eat. He’d best get on home.
But no, Gareth can’t face to go home. Neither can he face going to the gym. And the pub’s out. He could do, he should do, one or the other or something, but he doesn’t. Instead, Gareth finds himself heading back to work. He tells himself he is going back to the office, yes, this late in the day: he’d been called out at short notice to deal with Stella Moon, so he needs to clear up his desk, prepare for tomorrow, oh, yes, and leave a note for Geoff re: the Moon case. Concentrate on work, on helping other people, and that’s the best way of dealing with anxieties. Gareth begins to compose the note for Geoff in his head as he walks.
Geoff, in yr absence this pm I dealt with the Stella Moon business on yr behalf. I got her signed on at the DHSS and the emergency accom forms have been filled out and left at the housing office. She’ll meet you there at 10am tmrw but if you can’t manage it, I can cover for you. Gareth.
‘Cover.’ That’s suitably ambiguous.
Decision made, Stella out of sight, Gareth’s step is more jaunty. Hands deep in his trouser pockets and tie flapping as he strides along, improvising on the theme from the film Dirty Harry – it’s not a tune that’s easy remember, even when you’ve heard it as many times as Gareth has. Gareth heads back to the office, encouraged by images of his hero. Like Harry Callahan, Gareth will rise to the occasion, rise to the challenge of the dirty job that’s happened to come along… Gareth Davies has done a good day’s work and it’ll be over to Geoff now.
One of these days, Gareth will take a trip to Harry Callahan’s patch, San Francisco – the City by the Bay. He wants to see those places, those rooftops and dark alleyways, he wants to see what the SFPD cops are like, he wants to hear their voices. In the meantime, he’ll write the note for Geoff, put it in a sealed envelope, mark it ‘Confidential’ and leave it on Geoff’s desk. Gareth doesn’t want Clara prying. He’ll get the Stella Moon file out of the cabinet and put it in Geoff’s drawer, just in case Clara is tempted to nose into it again. Clara’s always stepping over the boundaries of her professional capacity. The Number One Sin in this business. What is it about criminals that makes people so goddamn curious?
P.S. Geoff, you need to say something to Clara, she’s been snooping in the Moon file.
All the lights are out when Gareth gets back to the office. He’s not used to being here in the dark and fumbles to find the switches. He puts all the lights on: he hadn’t noticed before what a nasty, bare, cold kind of light those fluorescent tubes give off – and flickery, they could make a person feel sick. Gareth switches them off one by one, till the flickering stops. He turns his Anglepoise on instead. He won’t be long getting off home. Gareth gets the Moon file out of the filing cabinet, but he doesn’t put it straight into Geoff’s drawer.
The file, in faded pink cardboard, is bulging and heavy, come down to the Probation Office from Newcastle Crown Court, evidently. R v Stella Moon. Case Number 70/003394. Gareth holds it open and looks in, sees papers and reports grouped together with treasury tags, staples gone rusty, newspaper cuttings held together with old bulldog clips. There’s a ‘Brief to Counsel’ page at the top of a bundle tied up with pink legal ribbon, counsel’s handwritten jottings; it’s all there. Gareth sits down at his desk, adjusts his Anglepoise, loosens his tie and pulls a wedge of papers out of the file. He sifts through seemingly randomly ordered official court documents until he gets to Stella’s confession, the ‘voluntary statement’ that formed the basis of the charge, the conviction, the sentence.
Gareth reads about the Beach Hut, the cliff path, the sea, and all that happened on the night Muriel died. As he turns the pages, he can hear Stella’s voice in his head as though she is sat right next to him. Gareth’s chilled, he’s fascinated, and he reads on, getting more and more of a sense of something not right, something uncertain. He can’t put a finger on it but he feels it drawing him in, gnawing at him somewhere deep down. Reaching the end of the statement, Gareth realises he’s been holding his breath. He breathes out long and loud, and pulls his tie off. He flicks through a few more papers from the file.
Unpredictable. Violent. Borderline. Words jumping out at him, none of them words he’d have used to describe Stella Moon.
It’s very hard to square all he sees in the file with the silent, brooding, waif-like young woman he’d had coffee with in Mark Toney’s only an hour or so ago. There seems a million miles between the Stella on those pages and the Stella Gareth saw. Gareth lays the papers down, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He was chilled before, but he’s sweating now; he really could do with a drink, just one. He could murder a cigarette as well, but he quit smoking months ago. He reaches into his briefcase before he remembers he ate the last of the Garibaldis at Mark Ton
ey’s.
Gareth sits back. ‘Christ almighty,’ he says out loud. ‘Christ all bloody mighty.’ That skinny little thing. She pushes her mother over a cliff. Just like that. She’d sat there in Mark Toney’s, chewing on her fingernails, she’d sat there and watched him eat all the biscuits. What the hell makes somebody murder their own mother? It makes Gareth feel cold even to think about it.
Chapter Fourteen
Frank doesn’t bother to search all the rooms. As soon as he walks back in the door he knows Stella’s done a runner. He might have guessed. She’s the same sly, crafty little bitch she always was, exactly like that bloody Muriel. Like mother, like daughter. And he’s the same stupid fool. Frank could kick himself. A missed opportunity. And he had been waiting so long, all the time Stella was inside, waiting, and even before that, all that time not knowing if she’s going to drop him in it big time. He should have shut her up there and then, this morning, whilst he had the chance. Frank had allowed his better nature to get the upper hand for once, and serves him right, it’s backfired.
He thought he’d give her a fair chance, find out what she knew or at least what she remembered – if anything – about the baby’s death, because chances were Stella didn’t remember a thing, not a dickie bird. Chances were all that from nearly ten years ago has been lost to oblivion, like so many of Stella Moon’s memories, vanished without trace. Or so she’d have you believe. Frank has often wondered – had those memories really disappeared? Or – and this always seemed to him more likely – did Stella know more than she was prepared to let on? Was she just keeping schtum for reasons best known to herself? Frank had never been able to work her out. Stella Moon didn’t seem to have any trouble remembering every detail about how she killed her mother, she could tell you every sordid detail of that particular episode. Frank can’t afford to take any chances, not after waiting nearly ten years to get himself in the clear. He has to err on the side of caution. Assume the worst. He needs to find Stella, he needs to find her quick, and he needs to deal with her, one way or the other.
The whole thing’s turned out to be much more urgent than Frank thought, but he’s not going to panic. Not only is Stella back on the loose, but the grandmother’s gone AWOL, and with her gone, what’s to stop Stella grassing him up big time? What’s to stop Stella dropping Frank right in the shit? He’s a fool, he shouldn’t have fallen for her wily little tricks. She’s a dark horse, that Stella, always was. It’s impossible to know what’s going on in that hot little head of hers, impossible to make out what she knows and what she doesn’t – whose side she’s on. When he thinks back, Frank should have known better than to trust her, nasty little killer. She must know she could drop him right in it, she’s not stupid. Far from it. Nasty, creepy, devious, sly – but not bloody stupid.
And what if that grandmother’s not dead and buried? What then? What if she’s still alive, festering away with her secrets? What if some journalist – or worse – gets to her and makes her talk? Eh? Where’s that going to leave Frank? Old Ruby Willoughby has no loyalty to him. She could spin no end of a tale about him and that poor dead baby and it’d end up her word against his, and Frank has a pretty good idea who they’d believe, and it wouldn’t be Frank Fanshaw. What if she’s gone gaga and is sprouting no end of accusations and insinuations right now, at this very moment?
Frank needs to calm down. Think rational. Logistics. Discipline. What needs to be done, when, where and how. Formulate a plan of action and stick to it, Frank. Think logical. Which is a bit difficult in this fusty old place, the unholy stink of it stops you from thinking.
OK. So Frank’s original plan has backfired, that much is obvious. Softly, softly, catchy monkey didn’t work. Give Stella the benefit of the doubt, get her on Frank’s side, that’s how he was playing it. Now: impossible. Solution: find her. Make her realise she has too much to lose, make her keep her mouth shut by whatever means proves necessary. It’s possibly too late for that. What if he can’t find her? Surely there’s not that many places she can go? Frank will go after her and next time, there’ll be no escaping. And when he gets his hands on her he’ll wring the truth out of her, then he’ll do whatever he has to do to get himself off the frigging hook once and for all.
Frank needs food first. Then decide. Find Stella first. Or Ruby. One’s as bad as the other. Or mebbies he should tackle the evidence first. Get rid of it properly. He can do that by himself. He doesn’t need Stella and mebbies it’s better if she’s not there.
There’s a fair chance Stella remembers nowt of any significance about Baby Keating. She’d asked Frank if he remembered, and he’d come over a bit queer and hadn’t been in the frame of mind to take it any further, which was a pity. He had missed a chance there. Anyhow, Stella had gone all that time – two, three years, was it? – without saying owt. In fact, without uttering a syllable about anything to anybody. And if Frank had understood it correctly, according to the medical people, loss of memory was part of Stella’s ‘condition’. Frank couldn’t remember what name they gave it. So, yes, there was a chance Stella had nothing to tell that could implicate Frank. But who knows, Stella Moon could just be a bloody good actress. Who knew what she was thinking all that time she was giving everybody the runabout with the silent treatment? And what’s she already told to whom while she’s been inside? Eh? Frank can’t be sure, and as long as he can’t be sure, he can’t take no chances. Now the little madam’s buggered off God knows where, she thinks she can call the tune. Well, Frank’s the organ grinder now, not the bloody monkey. He’ll not let her get away the next time. No-sir-ee. And to cap it all, the little besom’s nicked off with the rest of his fags. And the bloody Zippo.
Frank sits down at the table and makes himself a sandwich with the ham. He throws the tub of pease pudding into the fireplace – he can’t stand the stuff. He opens the bottle of Brown with the thing on his Swiss army knife and takes a few noisy gulps. That’s better. He leans back in his chair, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and takes another long swig. He could get some more beers in, wait it out a day or two, see if Stella comes back. He’s waited more than a week already. It hasn’t killed him. He could wait a bit longer. It could be worth it. Chances are she’s nowhere else to go. He could wait. He stuffs what’s left of the ham into the second roll, tears a chunk off with his teeth and washes it down with the rest of the beer.
Thinking logically. Frank decides Stella has most likely gone to try to find the grandmother. Alive or dead, he hasn’t a clue. It’d be a helluva lot easier for Frank if the old stick has passed away. One less mouth to talk. There’s Hedy Keating of course, but given that it was her baby, she’s unlikely to want the authorities prying into that. That was all bad enough back then, when the baby went ‘missing’. If Hedy was going to say anything, surely she’d have done so long before now. Frank may not have to worry about Hedy Keating. Frank’s not sure what to do first, what’s most important, whether he should stay on a bit or wait it out for Stella. Or try to find the grandmother. Or go and sort the evidence.
Let’s see if he can get the water turned on, the electric even. He might be able to fiddle it. If he’s going to stay here for a bit he’ll need water and leccy. Frank picks up the torch and goes into the scullery. He lies on the floor, wriggles his head and shoulders under the sink and feels for the stopcock. His hand touches something, it’s an ancient bar of Fairy all stuck up with mouse shit. He can just about reach the stop-cock, but it’s jammed up with rust. He wraps a rag around it the best he can and tries to turn it, but it’s not budging.
Lying on the scullery floor, Frank Fanshaw is fed up with his life and sick to the back teeth of being messed around by blasted women. They think they know it all, always have to be one step ahead. But this time it’s going to be different. From now on things will be a whole lot bloody different. Frank will not be ordered about, organised, or told what to do any longer by effing know-all women who think they know better than he does. L
ying on his back on the cold lino of the scullery floor, twisting at the stop cock – half the handle has already broken off – with cold wet hands, Frank’s thoughts turn to his mother. The original culprit. God damn her, he hasn’t thought about her for months. She could be dead and buried long since for all he knows, stone-cold dead and six foot under, like old mother Willoughby, the both of them, rotting under the ground. And good bloody riddance.
On the other hand, if she’s still alive and kicking, Frank’s mother could possibly be of some use for once in her life – if she knows anything about old mother Willoughby’s movements, for example. Or if she knows where Hedy is to be found. Frank hopes it won’t come to that. There are other avenues to explore first, but he has to think logical. Make plans.
In the old days, when Frank first came to old Ma Willoughby’s place, she used to pry and neb on about his mother. It seemed she couldn’t keep her nose out of Frank’s personal affairs.
‘And what about your Mam?’ old Ruby had asked. ‘Is she…?
‘Oh…passed away.’ Frank had shrugged, shaking his head and arranging a suitably sad look on his face. A moment had passed before Ruby had looked up and said, ‘Oh dear, dear, you poor man, I’m very sorry to hear it…’ But there was something in that look Ruby gave him that made Frank think she hadn’t altogether believed him. He’d felt obliged to elaborate.
