by Shelley Day
The supermarket’s sold out of the Journal, but Frank manages to get a four-pack of Brown Ales, two ham and egg sandwiches, a Twix, some fags, and a large bottle of Bell’s. He pockets his change and gets onto the Embleton bus which, miracle of miracles, is now standing there empty and waiting in the bus station. Frank’s not going to risk walking it, not with a stomach like he’s got at the moment. He’ll sit at the back and mind his own business.
Half an hour later, Frank’s getting off at Embleton. He steels himself and walks into the village shop. There on the floor, piles of them, today’s papers. Frank picks up a Journal, and a couple of the other papers, pays with the right money, says thank you very much and gets on his way.
So that was simple enough. He’ll wait till he gets down the road a bit before he has a look. Frank’s shaking as he heads down Sea Lane towards the golf course. All his insides are shuddering about in a state of terror. He takes a deep breath, several. Breathes in deep – sea air, which is supposed to be good for you – tries to calm down.
Frank wonders where Stella is. He needs to steel himself: she could have made her own way to the Beach Hut. Where else did she have to go? By the golf course there’s a wooden bench. He needs to decide what to do with her if she is there, and if she won’t see sense. Frank sits down, leans over and fiddles with his shoe till he’s confident no-one’s paying him any attention. There are a few people on the golf course, a couple over by the dunes with a border terrier and someone on a ride-on mower shaving the grass round the bunkers. No-one is taking any notice of Frank Fanshaw. He decides to chance looking at one of the papers. What could be more normal? A middle-aged man stopping for a minute or two to have a glance at the paper.
Frank opens The Journal and finds the page. Yes, there she is, it’s Stella alright. He’d half begun to hope that his eyes in the Tanner’s had deceived him, but no, it’s her, staring out at him from the newspaper.
NORTH EAST KILLER RELEASED, the headline reads.
Stella Moon, who confessed to killing her mother Muriel Moon in 1970, has been released from Holloway Prison where she served a full seven-year sentence for manslaughter. Many in the area believed the young killer got off lightly and the police should have done more to make a murder charge stick. It is believed Miss Moon, who is now 25, has returned to the North East. She grew up in Newcastle in the care of her grandmother, Ruby Willoughby, now 82, who ran a lodging house and now resides in a care home in the South of England. ‘Matricide is an extremely unusual crime,’ a local expert told us, ‘particularly when committed by a female, and one so young.’
Miss Moon’s name had appeared a few years earlier in connection with another crime, the abduction of an infant, a few weeks old, from the same lodging house. No-one was ever charged with the abduction, and the whereabouts of the baby has never been ascertained. But readers should rest assured the Journal’s intrepid reporter Daniel Macalinden is on the case. Mr Macalinden reported on the abduction of Baby Keating in 1966 as well as following the Moon case to its inevitable conclusion in 1970. Our reporter believes he can make a convincing case for a link between the two crimes and he is determined to get to the bottom of it. Meanwhile red-headed killer Stella Moon is free to go where she pleases in our county…
Frank can’t stand to read any more. He shuts the paper and folds it up small enough to cram into his pocket. He looks around, but still no-one appears to be paying him any mind.
Frank’s having trouble thinking straight. His hands are shaking. His stomach is gurgling, his bowels turning to water again. He tries to tell himself that things aren’t as bad as they could be, that he probably still has time to do what he has to do. But anxiety is hurting his chest, making it hard to get his breath. There’s a terrible tightness, he can’t seem to get enough air in.
All Frank can think of is getting to the Beach Hut and disposing of the evidence. Getting rid of the bloody baby. Finally rid of the sodding baby that has been the bain of his life for the last ten years. It’s only a matter of a time till the polis starts looking into the baby business again, till the papers start hounding Frank Fanshaw like they did when the baby went missing, like they did when Stella killed Muriel. Only a matter of time till Macalinden gets a proper handle on the story. Frank has to act fast. He feels exhausted and ill but forces himself to get up and get onto the dune path, heading for the Beach Hut. He’s got to get there quick, before he shits his pants.
How the hell he’d managed to get himself so mixed up with Stella Moon’s crimes, Frank still cannot fathom.
He’d read somewhere that burying a body makes you some kind of accessory even if you’ve got nothing to do with the actual death. Add to that the fact that it’s the body of a baby you’re talking about, and that makes it all the more serious for Frank, given what he’s already done time for. Plus, what Stella Moon could accuse him of if she chose to open her mouth – if she hasn’t already shopped him for God knows what. Frank’s chest hurts, it’s burning from the exertion and breathing in cold damp air. He could be going to have heart attack for all he knows. That could be a blessing. Anything would be better than the way Frank feels at this moment.
Slow down, Frank. Slow down. There’s no point in getting yourself all worked up. Think about it logically. You’ve been alright for getting on ten years. The only thing that’s changed is Stella has come out. OK, the press have reported it, but if Stella was going to squeal, she’d have done so by now. Ditto Ruby Willoughby. Ditto Hedy Keating. None of them have uttered a squeak in getting on for a decade. And for a very good reason. So calm yourself down.
Nevertheless, Frank knows he will feel an awful lot safer once he’s obliterated all trace of the baby’s body, once he knows for certain Stella Moon – whatever she does or does not remember – can’t go dropping him in it. Meanwhile, he’ll have to concentrate on not getting himself seen or, at least not recognised, in case the papers do get the bit between their teeth and start printing pictures of him. Those old pictures they had, they looked nothing like him in the first place. He’ll be alright. He’ll be alright, Frank tells himself. He. Will. Be. Alright.
Frank arrives at the Beach Hut calmer than he was ten minutes ago. He’s had a few slugs from the bottle of Bell’s on the way.
Looking over from a distance, Frank can see the place looks deserted. There’s no cops or anyone about. All quiet on the Western Front. Still, Frank can’t help being anxious as he lets himself in with his key. He’s surprised it still works, the lock being as rusty as it is with all the sea salt. He pushes the door open with his foot. It’s quite dark and he can’t see that much. The place smells bad – in fact, it stinks. And what a mess! Frank picks his way across the floor. That smell, it’s Muriel’s chemicals. And damp. An unlived-in smell. Mould. Frank lights a couple of candles and his eyes soon acclimatise. He looks more closely. He sees several of Muriel’s bottles and jars and specimens lying about on the floor. There could have been intruders. Frank glances around. The windows look intact enough. He takes a candle and goes through to the kitchen.
Frank stops dead at the kitchen door and dares not take a further step. He hold the flickering candle out at arm’s length, but even in that bad light he can see the very thing he didn’t want to see, the very last thing he thought he would see. A fucking dirty, great hole in the floor, exactly where the baby’s body should be.
So where the hell has that gone? Who the fuck has taken it?
Frank realises after a few moments that he has stopped breathing. He has to consciously start again. Breath in, Frank, breath out. The pain in his chest is back. The panic welling. Frank feels like an utter bloody idiot. He’s going to be sick. Up comes the whisky, burns his gullet, nearly chokes him. Get a grip, Frank, get a bloody grip.
The baby’s been dug up. Somebody’s took it. Which means Frank is in the shit. Somebody knows there’s a dead baby, a dead baby that was buried under the kitchen floor. Which means that somebody,
whoever they are, could be watching Frank Fanshaw, watching him right now, right this minute. There could be cameras. Somebody watching. Collecting evidence. Frank is afraid to turn round, afraid to move. He stands there, staring into the hole, staring into the ruddy gaping hole. What a frigging mess. How the hell is he going to get out of this? Who the fuck’s got the baby? And what the fuck for?
Maybe it’s Frank that’s going gaga. Ten years have passed since Stella killed the kid. Frank may have forgot a lot of things, but he wouldn’t forget something like burying a dead body and he’d swear on his life he and Muriel buried it there, right there, under that kitchen floor. Frank distinctly remembers. Muriel taxidermied it. She was queer like that. He shouldn’t have let her. He’d tried to stop her, but trying to stop Muriel was always going to be a losing battle. So he’d told himself the kid was dead, so what harm was there in letting Muriel have her way? There was no real way Frank could have persuaded her otherwise.
But look. The chickens have come home to roost. Whoever’s got that baby has a taxidermied corpse: grotesque, hideous, yes, to Frank’s mind, but more or less intact, recognisable as Hedy Keating’s little ‘un that disappeared from the boarding house. Christ. Frank is sweating. Trying to think things through. A rush of memories and panic all jumbled up, what the fuck, how the fuck, where the fuck? He looks some more into the gaping bloody great hole. He pokes around the sandy earth with his foot. No, definitely nothing in there. It’s gone. But when? Who? Why? The hole looks like it’s been dug a canny long time, the sandy earth completely dried out. Who would do that? Nobody but Frank and Muriel knew it was there. And Ruby. They’d told Ruby.
Frank’s plans are all to cock. He hadn’t factored in for this. And fear is making him irrational. He can’t think logical while his mind is whirling off in all directions and he’s listening for the cops to arrive at any moment. He takes a few more slugs from the whisky bottle. Get a grip, Frank, get a bloody grip.
Whoever took the body – whoever’s got the body. The police? Have they been and got it? They couldn’t have. It said in the paper the baby’s abduction was a crime still waiting to be solved. It can’t be the police. Oh, God. OK. Think through it Frank. Three possibilities, no, four; Ruby, Hedy, and Stella. Or some random unknown person. Which includes the polis. Because the press can tell lies on purpose. To put criminals off the scent. What is most likely? Frank can’t tell. It could be any. Or two of them, acting in cahoots. Someone setting a trap for him. Another long slug from the bottle. Christ almighty.
Frank steps outside onto the veranda, stands and listens. It’s still out there, and quiet. He can’t see nowt except the lighthouse on the Farnes doing its periodic sweep. He can’t hear a thing, nothing except the rush, rush, rush of the sea all mixed up with the rush, rush, rush of his own blood going past his ears. Fuck you, Stella Moon. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. What the fuck is he going to do?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gareth’s incompetence – there’s no other word for it, he’s been obliged to admit to himself – Gareth’s stupid, distracted bungling meant Stella Moon, fresh out of jail and therefore in the category ‘vulnerable’ had had to spend last night by herself in the derelict Boarding House or – even worse scenario – not alone, but with that creep (whose name Gareth can’t immediately recall, Frank somebody) who was there, or came back, whatever. Upshot is Gareth’s had a very bad night. His conscience pricked him into the small hours, then wide awake at five thirty. Now the anxiety’s spread and he’s worrying about everything under the sun. He hopes to God she shows up this morning at the housing place. Gareth curses himself, he can’t even remember what he told her about that, he can’t believe he can’t remember. Gareth can hear Mamgu’s voice in his head telling him he’d better pull his socks up. Gareth knows he’ll never get anywhere if he keeps on making mistakes like that. He cannot think how the hell he got so distracted.
Gareth’s rushed in early to work. He’s rung the housing place, left an urgent message for them to get Geoff on the case. Hopefully they’ll catch him before he leaves for the office, and then Geoff can go straight there and get the accommodation sorted. That done, Gareth feels a bit lighter. Then temptation gets the better of him and, no-one about, he goes to Geoff’s desk and retrieves the Moon file from where he locked it last night. Gareth tells himself if he’s going to use it for a Case Study in his MSc Dissertation – something he’d been thinking about in the night and decided it wasn’t a bad idea: both he and Stella, as well as the wider knowledge base, would benefit. He’s going to have to familiarise himself with all aspects of the case. What Geoff will have to say about the idea, whether he’ll have ethical issues – he usually does – well, Gareth will cross that bridge when he comes to it. Geoff may want to hang onto the case. Strictly speaking, Gareth’s not senior enough to be taking it over entirely, but Geoff could supervise him. Whatever, Gareth needs to get himself on top of it, show Geoff he’s on top of it, that he’s been prepared to put his own time in on it, etc.
Gareth knows there has to be a professional distance between Probation Officer and client. It’s a very basic rule. And it’s for the good of everyone. But the reality is a little more complex. Not with every client. It’s only her. There’s something about Stella Moon, she haunts you, you can’t easily step away. Gareth could never explain that to Geoff, so maybe he just has to wait and Geoff will find out for himself. Anyone would be fascinated by the fact that Stella Moon looks so ruddy normal … He’d better put the file away, before the others come. He’s not quite sure how to go about discussing things with Geoff.
In Gareth’s head, Stella is standing bedraggled in the rain, in those silly, old-fashioned clothes way too big for her and those daft golden slippers. She’s standing there, thin and pale with the little blue suitcase she hardly dares part with, a self-confessed killer, yet strangely innocent and vulnerable, crying out with need. There’s something else too, something else about her – she’s tough, self-contained, invincible. Those wide eyes, the determined set of the mouth, the way she stands straight and defiant, like she’s prepared to take on the world if need be. And that weird silence, how she shrinks inside herself and to all intents and purposes disappears, for no apparent reason. Gareth should stop thinking about her. He doesn’t want her taking him over. Get on with your own work, Gareth Davies, before Clara and Geoff get in.
* * *
Back at the boarding house, Stella is lying crumpled on the hallway floor, slipping in and out of consciousness, knowing she has to get away from the house but unable to summon up enough strength to stand, let alone walk. She’s lost all track of time, so many memories have come crowding in, it’s like they’ve been soaked all this time in the mortar of these walls and now she’s back they’re flooding out to claim her. Voices, all yammering at once – Muriel, her grandmother, Frank. Struggle as she might, Stella cannot keep them at bay. She tries to focus on Marcia, tries to calm herself by bringing Marcia’s face into view, tries to conjure up Marcia’s warmth and Marcia’s smell, the feel of her hand on Stella’s wrist, the way her uniformed breasts had pressed against Stella as Marcia lifted her up and carried her back to the Infirmary wing. How much Marcia had risked for her. There’s no-one to do that now, not here… And the house, determined to reclaim her. Stella wondersf if she can crawl on her belly to the front door, or at least a bit closer to it.
* * *
Last night, Gareth had watched his Dirty Harry video for the umpteenth time. He practically knows the dialogue off by heart. Harry Callahan made mistakes, but deliberate ones. Harry Callahan got involved in cases, emotionally, more often than not. He never bothered about keeping his nose clean or ‘satisfying his superiors,’ – far from it. Harry would scoff at Gareth’s scruples. He gets where he wants to be, because everything comes from the heart. Gareth can’t honestly say his heart is in probation work. He wishes it were. But it’s not. Maybe Stella Moon can help him. He is interested in her case, in mat
ricide. A bit of graft and Gareth could become an expert. Gareth could get passionate over a case like Stella Moon’s.
Gareth is engrossed in his own work when, quite a while later, Geoff comes in looking flustered.
‘You look like you’ve come through a hedge backwards,’ says Gareth.
Geoff takes off his jacket, hangs it on the back of his chair, tucks his shirt in and smoothes his hair down.
‘Wretched Stella Moon woman,’ he says, ‘has gone and done a runner. I’ve been to the housing place, and all the way across to the Spinney Flats with the bloody housing officer. No sight nor sound of our Miss Moon. And then the sodding car breaks down right in the middle of the effing estate, can you believe it? Talk about stress. I’ve had to come back on the blasted bus.’
‘D’you mean for the emergency accommodation? She didn’t show?’ Gareth says, a wave of heat passing through him. The housing place must have got the message he left, surely. Gareth daren’t ask. He wishes yet again that he hadn’t let her go back to the boarding house on her own.
‘Damn right,’ Geoff says, ‘and I waited an hour for the bloody AA to come for the car and missed the Murray case conference. Walked miles before I found a sodding phone box that wasn’t vandalised.’
‘Why didn’t Stella Moon show up, then?’ Gareth asks. He’ll blame himself if anything’s happened to her.
‘And how the hell am I supposed to know that?’ Geoff says. ‘I’m not a bloody mind reader.’ Geoff is pacing about in the room.
‘Keep your hair on,’ says Gareth. ‘I was only asking. You need to sit down, Geoff.’ This was not a good time to mention case studies for Dissertations.
Geoff plonks himself down in his chair, flicks through the pile of post on his desk. Clara comes in and neglects to apologise for her own lateness, and Geoff’s starting to have a go at her when he stops himself mid-sentence.
