by Deborah Bee
No one moves.
‘See, gentlemen. No one heard that. Let’s see if anyone in this room down here heard that.’
Abigail goes out of the TV room, hands up, like she’s in an episode of NYPD Blue.
‘So! There’s another one! Who do we have here, then?’
‘Just me,’ she says. ‘And I definitely heard everything.’
‘Don’t play the smart arse with me. Anyone else hiding in there?’ he says. She flicks her eyes to me.
‘There’s no one else. Just me. And the telly,’ she says.
He stares at her and she shrugs.
‘Go on then, Sal. You back into there. Think we need some quiet time, you and me, and this lovely little girl. So young and innocent . . . bit like White Wine Hayley, really, eh, Sal?’
As I back into the TV room again, the girls are all lined up against the side of the wall, flat, petrified. Apart from Big Debbie. Big Debbie is crouched over, right by the door. I’ve got to admit, at first I thought she was having some kind of seizure or something, but then I see, out of the corner of my eye, that she has her arms above her head, and she’s watching for Jay’s feet as Terry edges her in through the archway. Jay can see Big Debbie now; her eyes swivel sideways, then to me, then back to Big Debbie again, like she doesn’t understand, and all I want to tell her is it’s all going to be OK, but even I don’t really believe that, can’t really believe that. Terry is staring at me, right into my soul, to see if I know something he doesn’t, something that will give it all away.
And then I see Clare over Terry’s shoulder, standing on the stairs, facing me, looking like the girl with the bare feet, the desperate girl in the police station, hair stuck to her head, rings under her eyes, dressing gown wrapped around her tightly, confused, afraid, tears streaming down her face, with a vacant look, as if, at that very precise moment, she’s just stopped caring about anything else.
‘Don’t die, Sally! Don’t die, Sally! DON’T DIE, SALLY!’ she screams. She can see Terry and the knife and Jay.
Terry freezes and slowly twists his head.
She drops down one step, as though she’s in a daze, and then another, like she’s sleepwalking, and I follow her with my eyes, and she keeps on screaming and howling like there’s an animal inside her. Terry drags his eyes from her to me and back again. And Mrs H is moving in slow motion towards her, and she’s still screaming . . .
Then right next to me, there’s a click sound.
Big Debbie. She makes this weird kind of click with the side of her mouth.
At the same time as I look down to see where the click is coming from, I catch sight of Abigail’s laptop in Big Debbie’s hands, grasped tightly, her fingers turning white against the harsh purple of her nail varnish.
Terry turns back, contorts his mouth into his usual sneer, pushes Jay that extra inch into the TV room and in one movement Big Debbie brings herself up and around like a fucking shot putter, and puts all her weight behind that laptop, smashing it into Terry’s forehead before he’s even managed to see it coming. His neck snaps back and his legs fly out from beneath him, throwing Jay forwards into my outstretched arms, as his body smacks to the floor and a dark pool begins to form around his head.
Silence.
Even Clare shuts up.
A bubble of blood appears between his parted lips then pops leaving a spray of drops on the grey stubble around his mouth.
An alarm sounds and in the distance a siren whines, gradually getting louder as it approaches.
The security guards start shouting into their phones.
Jay starts to sob and Prashi starts to run and Clare starts to fall and Mrs H goes to catch her.
‘You fucking broke my laptop,’ says Abigail, crouching down and putting her arms around Big Debbie’s shoulders.
Big Debbie falls into her.
‘I really hate it when men say you’re fat,’ she says.
Fifty-One
DS Clarke
The Wedding Boutique in Chiswick High Road is triple-fronted. The window frames are arched and painted white. There are two front doors, each with brass door handles. So far, so very weddingy.
A woman in leather trousers and a fringed suede jacket staggers up to the left-hand door. DS Clarke clocks the five-inch stilettoes. The pavement is raised at that point, with stone steps and a handrail leading to a handful of designer shops. There’s a tree, one of those London plane trees, with overgrown roots, so the concrete slabs around it are uneven. Not the ideal path for five-inch stilettoes.
She’s busy with a bunch of keys, undoing locks at the bottom, the top and the middle of the door. Her shiny beige leather-clad bottom is exposed like a full moon.
DS Clarke has a particular opinion on middle-aged women in leather trousers and high heels.
‘Ah, Mrs Meering,’ says DS Clarke, trotting up the steps in her Doc Martens.
The woman straightens, pulls down her jacket at the back and turns.
‘Ms,’ she says, pushing open the door.
Ms Meering has thinning fair hair with highlights, lowlights and a lot of mousse to give it lift at the roots. She’s had work.
‘I’m DS Clarke,’ says DS Clarke. ‘I believe you’ve already met one of my colleagues, DC Walker. I just have a few more questions . . .’
‘Look, I know you people work incredibly hard . . .’ Cheshire accent. Can’t miss it.
‘. . . it’s just that I have clients in half an hour and the heating’s been off all night, and my assistant Sandra isn’t here today and there’s no milk. So, can you perhaps refer back to whatever your constable got from me and not waste my very valuable time? No offence. Sorry to seem rude,’ she says, beginning to close the door behind her.
She’s missed with her lipstick. She has a wobbly line around the edge her lips and some sparkly gloss in the middle. Some of the sparkly gloss is on her teeth. DS Clarke rubs her own lips together. Lip salve she’s had since at least 2010.
‘My Detective Constable did make some useful notes, Ms Meering – can I call you Colleen? – but there are a couple of things outstanding, and I’m quite sure you’d much prefer to answer here rather than down at the station.’
Her hands fall to her sides, and she exhales noisily.
‘Look, Police Lady Clarke. I’m done with answering questions about Gareth . . .’
Gareth already!
‘Detective Sergeant Clarke. Actually, Colleen, my questions were about Clare Chambers and Gareth James, but since you seem to be so forthcoming about Gareth, perhaps we can start there. May I sit?’ she says, and eases herself onto a chintz, overstuffed cushion in the window seat.
Colleen Meering looks at DS Clarke blankly.
‘Is this the dress that Clare Chambers bought?’ DS Clarke taps on her phone and shows her the image, Clare grinning under a veil, Gareth looking over her shoulder, all smiles. Only the shoulder of the dress is showing.
‘That’s the dress she selected, yes,’ says Colleen. But there’s something in the way she said it.
‘So, they put in an order and collected the dress at a later date?’
‘Well no, that’s what should have happened.’
‘But?’ says DS Clarke, giving her an encouraging fake smile. ‘You did them a favour, did you? Is that it?’
Her phone starts buzzing. She ignores it.
‘Yes. Kind of,’ says Ms Meering.
‘And why would you do that?’
Ms Meering is blushing. ‘You’re blushing, Colleen. Why’s that?’
She’s silent.
‘Did they pay you in cash? Was that it? Under the counter?’ says DS Clarke.
‘No,’ she says. Too quick. ‘No, he didn’t pay. Not even a deposit.’
‘So, they didn’t order a dress.’
‘No, they did order a dress, but he cancelled it. Asked me not to say,’ she whispers.
DS Clarke shakes her head like she can’t believe her ears.
‘Hold on,’ she says
. ‘So there never was a dress. Just a dress she tried on.’
‘Um, yes.’
‘And Gareth told you not to tell anyone, if you were asked? Is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it. That’s it!’ she says emphatically.
DS Clarke raises her eyebrows.
‘And why would you agree to do that, Colleen?’ she says. ‘You’re an upstanding member of the community, I’m sure. Why would someone like you, Ms Colleen Meering, living in Chiswick, running a profitable little business, with a nice three-storey overlooking Ravenscourt Park, why would you agree to tell a lie to the police. Which, let me remind you, is a criminal offence?’
Colleen Meering is staring at her feet. Her face is the colour of a beetroot. And when she raises her head and looks at DS Clarke, it’s clear that she’s about to cry.
‘He made me promise,’ she barely whispers.
‘In return for what, Colleen?’ says DS Clarke softly.
She says nothing. And then she lifts her chin, and juts it out.
‘Opportunities like Gareth don’t come along every day, DS Clarke,’ she says. ‘I’m sure you understand that. Frankly, he was too good-looking to turn down.’
DS Clarke’s phone buzzes.
‘He was charming.’ Ms Meering shrugs.
‘That’s it?’
‘Very attentive. Unusually so.’
DS Clarke’s phone goes off again. She clicks through to the call. It’s Mrs Henry.
She listens and her heart starts to race.
‘Tell me she’s all right!’ she says into the phone. ‘Ms Meering, I’ve got to go.’ And runs down the steps back to her car.
Fifty-Two
Clare
Mrs Henry says it’s wrong to celebrate somebody being cracked on the head. Specially if it’s your ex-husband.
Sally says it’s every bloody reason to celebrate. She says she’s gonna go off to get some sparkling wine.
Because she can now.
Because she’s free to do what she wants.
Free to go home too, if she wants to.
But Detective Sergeant Clarke says she has to wait. Says you never know where his brothers might be hiding. Right outside for all we know.
Says she’ll get PC Chapman to get the Prosecco.
Says it’s not really police business, going out buying Prosecco for refuge residents. But that she can turn a blind eye, ‘Just this once, mind.’
‘Given the circs,’ she says.
The ambulance has been and gone.
They tried to say I had to go. To get checked.
But I was like, fuck that.
I’m not missing out on all the fun.
And Detective Sergeant Clarke said that wasn’t really the attitude.
And that a serious crime had been committed.
And Sally nodded sombrely.
And then nudged me in the ribs when Susan wasn’t looking.
*
We’ve all been herded into the dining room.
Mrs Henry is waiting outside the TV room with a bucket of soapy water and a mop to get the bloodstain off the floor. But there’s some bloke with a flash camera taking pictures of it from every possible angle.
‘Crime scene!’ he’d barked at her.
Suddenly we’ve all gone quiet.
‘FUCK ME SIDEWAYS,’ shouts Big Debbie, out of nowhere.
We all nearly die on the spot.
‘I’ve only gone and broken a fucking nail,’ she says.
‘You’ve broken a fucking nail?’ says Sian.
‘On that fucking laptop!’ says Big Debbie.
‘Is that it? I thought at least the Pope must have died.’
‘I’m going to have to file the lot down and start again,’ she tuts.
‘It was worth it,’ says Sarah, trying to join in.
‘I don’t think he were worth my nail, actually, that scumbag,’ growls Big Debbie.
‘We must thank the Lord for small mercies,’ says Sarah.
‘Jesus, once you and the Lord get together we know we’re all in trouble,’ says Big Debbie.
‘I wish they’d hurry up with that Prosecco,’ says Abi. ‘I’m parched.’
We fall silent again. Sit there, in a daze, while the police buzz in and out of the security gates, their heels click, click, clicking up and down the hall.
Cerise, Rose and Magenta have all been cordoned off by Mrs Henry, so the police can conduct their interviews.
Everyone will be interviewed.
That’s what she says. Before they’ve had their Prosecco, she says.
Whatever you did see or didn’t see, it’s all important, she says.
And another room has been given over to the ambulance service. The one at the back, Fuchsia. Everyone is being checked for shock, she says.
‘You come first,’ says Mrs Henry, looking at me as though I’m the biggest victim.
‘Don’t you think . . .’ I mouth at her, and nod my head sideways towards Sally.
Sally has turned puce.
She’s not said a word for half an hour, at least.
‘She’s in shock,’ she whispers, nodding, putting her arm around Sally’s shoulders and gently helping her out of her chair.
‘Come along, Sally. Let’s get you checked first,’ she says.
Sally’s tears are falling like rain.
Terry got carted off in the ambulance.
Under police guard.
Prashi and the girls have gone too.
And Big Debbie’s a hero.
He’s not dead or anything.
Terry’s not.
Well, not yet he’s not.
Everyone agrees it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man.
*
When PC Chapman gets back with three bottles of Prosecco, I go to the kitchen with Abigail to find some cups.
It’s dark in the kitchen.
We don’t bother to turn the lights on.
Somehow it feels better in the dark.
Different to how it’s ever felt before.
Safer.
‘Plastic beakers or mugs?’ says Abigail, standing in front of the open kitchen cupboard with her hands on her hips.
‘Mugs,’ I say, noticing the poster and the scribble in the corner. ‘Wasn’t totally the same shit today, was it?’ I say to Abs.
‘Nope,’ says Abs. ‘That was totally different shit.’
There’s a felt tip on the side. One of Prashi’s girls must have left it there.
I kneel up on the counter and scribble out the comment. Then line the mugs up on a tray.
And then the door swings open suddenly, and bangs against the wall, making the kitchen cupboard doors slam, and the mugs on the tray rattle against each other.
‘Is Sal in here with you?’ shouts Susan. She looks like she’s about to explode.
‘She’s in with the nurse,’ I say.
‘I’ll give her “in with the nurse”,’ she says, and swivels on her heel.
By the time I’ve reached the kitchen door, Susan has disappeared into Fuchsia, and the nurse, looking slightly crestfallen, is coming out.
‘I don’t care if she’s in . . .’ I hear before the door slams shut.
There’s the sound of raised voices.
We can all hear them and catch snippets of sentences ‘. . . Barney . . . Ryan . . . Heroin . . . Terry . . .’
So much for soundproofing.
Mrs Henry opens the door a fraction.
‘SHUT IT,’ shouts Susan from inside.
No one feels like Prosecco anymore.
Then the door clicks open.
‘I told you to steer clear of him, didn’t I?’ she shouts. ‘You and your little romance.’
‘It’s not a romance!’ shouts Sally from inside the room.
‘Mrs Henry!’ Susan yanks open the door and strides into the hallway.
Mrs Henry is standing right next to the door, like a sentinel. She looks like she’s about to kill herself.
‘In!’ shouts Susan, slamming the door behind her, but the door misses the catch and creeps open again, and more of the conversation leaks into the hall.
‘Mrs Henry. Were your ears burning?’ shouts DS Clarke.
‘Were they? No. What were you saying? I thought . . .’ Mrs Henry murmurs, flustered.
‘What would you like to tell me, Mrs Henry, about Barney?’ says DS Clarke.
‘He’s just a bum, you know, a junkie who’s squatting at the end of the road,’ says Mrs Henry.
‘Oh, believe me,’ shouts Susan. ‘I know exactly who Barney is. What I’m asking is why he’s been hanging around here, spending time with this idiot? I’ve just been informed by the security team that he was trying to hug her yesterday. Didn’t I tell you to watch out for them? Didn’t I expressly ask you to keep me informed?’
The door opens wider and now I can see Sally and Mrs Henry sitting, looking like they’re in the headteacher’s office.
Mrs Henry looks up. ‘He’s been hanging around trying to look through the windows. He turned up yesterday afternoon. To see Sally. He was off his face. Very agitated. Sally came to the door—’
‘It’s too late to tell me now!’ shouts Susan.
Mrs Henry’s eyes widen. Then she looks at her hands.
‘We know that one of them, probably Barney, was asked by Terry where Sally was living,’ she says quietly.
‘NO SHIT SHERLOCK,’ yells Susan.
‘And you were going to tell me this when?’
Mrs Henry shrugs like a schoolgirl.
‘And Barney has been hanging around here.’ And you didn’t formally report that. EITHER! all day
Sally has buried her face in a bundle of Kleenex.
‘Surely the issue wasn’t about Barney, it was about Terry,’ says Mrs Henry.
‘And I thought I was running this case!’ says Susan, looking out of the door to see who is listening – all of us – and slamming the door shut.
Five minutes later it slams open again and Susan marches down the hall to security where Derek’s eyes are widening by the second. He stands up. To attention.
‘And Barney was waiting outside tonight, wasn’t he? You saw him. You knew he was there!’
Derek is staring at the floor. Sally and Mrs Henry are limping down the hall after Susan.
