by Ann Troup
‘Huh,’ the old woman had uttered. ‘I remember them all right. Who could forget?’
Then she’d launched into her story, just as Angie had known she would.
‘I take it you want to know about Edna Mint, although it all seems to be a bit too long ago to be worrying about what she got up to. She’s been dead thirty years.’ The woman had chuckled wheezily. ‘She weren’t Val’s mother; she were an aunt. Took Valerie on when her real mother died. Mind you, rumour has it that were down to Edna,’ she’d said with a slow, precise nod of her head.
‘What was down to Edna?’
‘Valerie’s mother’s death. Died in childbirth didn’t she,’ the old woman had said impatiently, with a shake of her head that implied Angie might be a bit stupid. ‘Edna was the local woman.’
Angie had been completely lost. She’d looked at Pam, afraid of the old woman’s censure should she ask for clarity.
‘Edna was the woman people called on if they were in trouble. She did the laying out and stuff,’ Pam had offered, adding about as much clarity as a dollop of mud in a glass of water.
‘Stuff?’ Angie had queried.
The old woman flapped her hand impatiently. ‘Laying out dead people, tending ’em if they was sick, looking after women in trouble, and she was the local midwife. Not official like, but the one most people around here preferred. Cheaper than the doctor see.’ She’d taken another noisy slurp of tea. ‘Back before the war, before the ’ealth service and that, you had to pay. She was cheaper. ’Course after the NHS, she had to keep up with the times, not a lot of money in just laying out.’
‘What did she do then?’ Angie had asked, sipping her own tea tentatively from the opposite side to the chip.
‘Sorted girls out that had got themselves in trouble. Do it for three guineas. That’s how she killed off her own sister, dirty habits and infection. Nasty business,’ the woman had said with a sniff fuelled by her morality.
‘You mean she was an abortionist?’
The old woman had nodded and Pam had looked away, as if she were ashamed to be associated with such things.
‘Messed a lot of women up she did – surprised your lot never caught her for it. Nasty business. Pam, wasn’t she in the picture for Elsie Brent too?’
‘I don’t know, Mother, I can’t remember,’ Pam had said quietly, unable to look either her mother or Angie in the eye.
‘Of course you do. You, Val, and Dee Dee Brent were thick as thieves.’
‘It was a long time ago, Mother – we were children.’
‘Hardly! You was teenagers when Elsie copped it. Everyone knew she’d fallen again, at her age too. Edna did her in, her with her gin and knitting needles and her dirty hands.’
‘She didn’t use knitting needles; it was a tube thing!’ Pam had shouted, then realised what she’d said, clapped a hand over her mouth, and burst into tears.
The old woman had been stunned into silence. Pam had leapt up and run into the kitchen, slamming the door.
Angie had found her locked in the toilet. ‘Pam, come out, it’s all right. No one’s in trouble. I’m not here for that. Did something happen with Edna Mint? Did she do something to you?’ All she’d heard was quiet sobbing from behind the door. So she waited. After a minute or two, Pam undid the door and came out.
‘We were just kids,’ she’d said, her voice husky with emotion.
Whatever had happened, she must have been carrying it around with her for an awful long time, Angie had thought. The woman had to be in her late sixties if she was a day. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Maybe it would help her if she did. Maybe it would help Angie if she did.
Pam had glanced towards the window. Her mother’s wizened face had been peering out from underneath the net curtain, which had been draped over her head like a veil. ‘She’ll never let up on me ’til I tell her.’
Angie had given her a sympathetic smile. ‘Best get it over with then,’ she’d said, offering a clean but crumpled tissue.
It turned out that it wasn’t anything to do with Edna Mint, well not directly anyway. Dee Dee Brent had been in trouble, not Elsie her mother. The mother had died of natural causes – ovarian cancer that had swollen her belly so much that everyone thought she was pregnant. Dee Dee hadn’t told her family of her own predicament because of her mother’s illness, but had sought the help of Edna.
Edna had refused to perform the abortion because Dee Dee was too far into the pregnancy, but Val had wanted a new pair of shoes, so took Dee Dee’s money and performed the abortion herself, using the equipment her auntie used. ‘She told us it was all right, that she knew what to do, that Edna had showed her how it worked. But she didn’t. It was awful and there was blood everywhere. I was only there to help out and look after Dee Dee. The baby was supposed to come away of its own accord, but it didn’t; there was just blood. We panicked, and I fetched Edna, then she panicked. Dee Dee was out of it then. Edna and Val, they dumped her in the street and made me phone an ambulance. Told me I would go to prison as an accomplice if I ever said anything. I was terrified.’
Angie had needed to dig deep into her bag for another tissue to stem Pam’s renewed bout of crying. ‘What happened to Dee Dee?’
‘They took her to hospital, took the baby away there. They took her womb too. Val had really messed her up. She was fifteen; we were all fifteen.’
‘Why didn’t she report it?’ Angie wanted to know.
‘She was ashamed. Her mother was dying; she thought her family would disown her.’
‘But surely they found out? She was in hospital,’ Angie reasoned.
Pam shook her head. ‘Edna went round there, told her dad Dee Dee was staying with them because of her mother being ill. He was grateful. Edna helped him nurse Elsie, right up to when she died. Dee Dee stayed in hospital the whole time, never told a soul, kept her mouth shut even when the doctors called your lot in. She never said a word. Never saw her mum again either. She discharged herself the day her mother died. ’Course, the doctor came round, told her dad all about it, no confidentiality back then. He beat her black and blue and threw her out on the street and never spoke to her again, wouldn’t even let her go to her own mother’s funeral. I don’t know what happened to her after that, never saw her again,’ Pam had said with a loud sniff.
Angie had handed her another tissue and wondered who the tears were for: Dee Dee Brent, or herself?
The old woman had just sat in her chair, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Well well well,’ was all she’d said.
Angie had been expecting a moral tirade, but Pam’s story had shocked her mother into something near silence.
‘What happened to Edna and Valerie after that?’
‘To be honest I didn’t have much to do with them. I sort of kept my distance from them. I do know that Dee Dee got money from her, money to keep her mouth shut. I can’t say I blame her. She had to live on something. As for Val, I know she had a kid, which was weird given what Edna did for money.’
‘Perhaps what happened to Dee Dee put her off,’ Angie had suggested.
Pam had shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe. She married some rich bloke, I know that much.’
She got more than she bargained for though, Angie had thought. ‘What about Dee Dee, what happened to her?’
Pam hadn’t known. ‘Not sure, it’s all such a long time ago. We’re talking about the 1950s.’
The old woman had the answer. ‘I know what happened to her: she went on the game, had a pimp called Barrington Jones, big black fella. She shacked up with him, supposed to have married him, but I never believed it. He had women all over, poncing on all of them. Nasty piece of work he was, rough. Got himself killed in a fight. They found him dumped in an alley with his head stoved in. I remember that like it was yesterday,’ she’d mused.
‘Ask her what she had for breakfast this morning and she wouldn’t be able to tell you,’ Pam had whispered to Angie with a brave little smile.
The cogs in Angie’s mind had
been on a go-slow. It had taken several seconds for her to put two and two together. ‘Was Dee Dee short for Delia by any chance?’
‘That’s right. Delia Brent, we always called her Dee Dee,’ Pam had said before blowing her nose loudly into her tissue.
***
Angie had certainly established the link between Valerie Porter and Delia Jones, and quite a disturbing one at that. Now, sitting here at Rachel’s bedside, she wondered if William Porter had known that he was marrying an abortionist’s daughter, well niece to be correct, but even so … She wouldn’t mind betting that Valerie had kept that quiet from her new family.
The story definitely explained the connection between the two women, and gave quite a picture of Valerie’s early years. What it didn’t explain was Delia’s loyalty to the Porters. By rights she should hate them. Valerie had ruined her life, might well have killed her. No wonder Valerie had felt obliged to employ her; it would have been the least she could do.
It was only at this stage, as she was mulling things over, pitching the story in her head that an obvious fact occurred to her. Charlie. If Pam had been telling the truth about Delia, how on earth had Charlie come into the picture?
She needed to get hold of Ratcliffe, talk it through with him. Surely it wouldn’t hurt if she left the ward for a few minutes? After all, she didn’t even know what she was doing there in the first place. Did Ratcliffe think Rachel was going to come round and reveal some big secret that would be the final key to the whole case?
Chapter 34
Ratcliffe had drafted in another DC to assist with the interview. DI Benton wasn’t around; besides, she’d shown a decided lack of interest in the twists and turns of this case, so he’d just nabbed someone out of the office who wasn’t doing anything better. The sergeant in question was one Rick Haddon, nice kid in Ratcliffe’s opinion, not pushy, and that was just what he needed, someone quiet who would let him do the talking.
They were in the interview room. He’d done the blurb for the tape and had explained yet again to Frances what her rights were and what would happen to the tapes. She had responded affirmatively to all his questions – so far. ‘Now, Mrs Haines – Frances – you stated to me earlier, in the presence of PC Kelly, that you were willing to explain the circumstances of Roy Baxter’s death.’
‘Yes,’ she said, leaning slightly towards the recorder as if she wanted to be sure it had picked up her answer.
Ratcliffe wanted to tell her that there was no need.
‘Go on,’ he urged instead.
Frances closed her eyes, giving him the impression that if she had to talk about this, she had to go back to it and rerun it in her head like a scene from a film. ‘After Patsy Jones’s death, Roy had become increasingly unhappy – very aggressive, and unpredictable. He was often violent towards Stella, and though he’d never physically attacked any of the rest of us, we were all very afraid of him. He could send Rachel into a fit just by looking at her.
‘Most of the time we would just stay out of his way. He’d got it into his head that Mother had money hidden somewhere in the house, started tearing the place apart, shouting and yelling at everyone, kicking the furniture, things like that – Mother was yelling back at him, telling him that he’d had everything she had and that there was no more.
‘Anyway, he went upstairs and tried to get into her bedroom. She always kept it locked. None of us were ever allowed in there. It was her private space. There was a scuffle on the landing and he hit Mother. He wanted the key to her room, was convinced she had cash hidden in there. I tried to pull him off her, but he pushed me to the ground. He was dragging Mother along the landing by her arm. She was screaming and screaming.
‘Stella was there too. She just curled herself up into a ball in the corner. She always did when he got started. Anyway, I don’t really remember how it all happened but Delia appeared out of nowhere. I didn’t even know she was in the house. She had the iron in her hand, must have picked it up from downstairs – I think Stella had been ironing a shirt for Roy. That’s what he wanted money for; he wanted to go out.
‘Anyway, she hit him, hard, over the back of the head. He fell on the floor. I remember getting up and going over to him. He was out cold. I felt for a pulse, but I couldn’t find one. I thought he was dead.’
Ratcliffe interrupted. ‘Are you telling us that Delia Jones killed Roy Baxter?’ It was hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
‘Please, I haven’t finished,’ she said impatiently, eyes still closed, still picturing the scene.
‘He lay on the floor not moving. She stood there with the iron in her hand. Mother was hysterical; I was terrified. It had been bad enough when Patsy had died, now there was another body. I didn’t think any of us could face all that again. Mother kept saying, “Get rid of him, get rid of him.” So we did.
‘Delia and I dragged him downstairs. We rolled him onto an old blanket and carried him out on that. I thought we were going to bury him, or put him in the boot of his car and dump it somewhere, but Delia said no, there was too much risk he would be found. She told me how long it would take to dig a grave, how hard it would be. I had no idea. I had never disposed of a corpse before. Mother had the idea of using the trunk so Delia and I dragged him out there, and lifted him in. I can remember how heavy he was, a dead weight. Oh my God, I remember now!’
She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. ‘Delia had gone outside. I was on my own, trying to force his arms into the trunk, but it was really hard. He woke up! He grabbed my wrist. I screamed. I’d thought he was dead. But he grabbed me. I think I must have passed out. I vaguely remember Delia with a shovel in her hands. I think she must have hit him again. Anyway, I went inside, made a cup of tea.’
She gave a slight laugh at the incongruity of this part of the memory. ‘Delia and Mother covered him in salt. Rock salt, the kind used for gritting roads. God knows why but he’d bought tons of the stuff, had it stored in one of the sheds. I think it must have been one of his dodgy deals. Mother thought it would stop him rotting, stop him causing a smell. Like curing bacon she said – which is what you do with dead pigs.’
‘What happened then?’ Ratcliffe asked.
‘We drank tea. Agreed that we would say he’d left. Stella packed his clothes and his things; we put it in the car. Delia drove it somewhere, got rid of it. I don’t know where. I didn’t care. That’s what we told Rachel, that he’d just left. She was the only person who ever asked where he’d gone. The next time I saw him was when we cleared the house.’
‘But you knew the body was there; you knew he would be found.’
‘Yes. Of course I knew.’
‘Why didn’t you report his murder to the police at the time?’ This was from DC Haddon.
‘It wasn’t an option.’
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
‘Mother would never have allowed it. Besides we were all involved, all implicated. We’d all played a part in it.’
‘But it was Delia Jones who struck the blow?’ Ratcliffe said.
‘Delia Jones had struck many blows. She had my mother in the palm of her hand. Stella was more terrified of her than she was of Roy. None of us argued with Delia, not if we knew what was good for us.’
‘I don’t understand. She was your cleaner,’ Haddon said, glancing down at the file in his hand.
‘That’s what people were told; that’s what we allowed them to believe. But Delia was never a cleaner. Not for us anyway. Mother called her “my nemesis”. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know, but she had some hold over her, over all of us. She knew all our secrets, all our weaknesses. She made threats to expose things, things that would hurt us.’
‘Like what?’ Ratcliffe asked. He was curious now. He still didn’t believe a word of it, but he was curious.
‘I don’t know what Stella told you when she was here, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s not going to hurt her or mother. Her father used to rape her. We all knew, but no one did anything. Mother despised hi
m by then, and so did I. Not that I understood what was happening at the time. I just thought he preferred her to me.’
‘Go on,’ Ratcliffe said, unwilling to let her pontificate on that particular situation.
‘Well, Delia knew too. When Stella got pregnant by him she and Mother delivered the baby, I can remember sitting on the attic stairs, listening to Stella scream for hours. I saw Delia come out of the room with Mother. She had a bag, an old shopping bag, one of those with the zip across. She put it on the floor on the landing. Father was still there then. He was shouting downstairs; he was drunk. They went down.
‘When they had gone, I crept down the stairs and looked in the bag. There was a towel inside. I opened it up and saw a baby there. It wasn’t moving. I hadn’t even known Stella was pregnant, I just thought she was getting fat. I was so young. I picked it up – the baby. I was fascinated. I could hear Stella crying in her room, so I went in. She was crying for the baby so I gave it to her.
‘She told me they had tried to kill it. Delia had held the towel over its mouth when it was born, and had put it in the bag. Mother had told her to get rid of it. Stella told me to lock the door, so I did. We locked them out. I asked Stella where it had come from. She told me about her and Father. I didn’t know much at the time, but I knew that was wrong.
‘I can’t really remember how it all came about but Mother threw Father out that night. I think he went to the flat above the shop for a while. Stella wouldn’t part with the baby – it was dead but she wouldn’t give it up. Mother had to force it away from her in the end. I never knew what happened to it until Rachel found it in the house that day. I guess they did the same to it as we did to Roy.
‘I remember that bloody bag though, like it was yesterday. Anyway, we all had something on each other then. Delia had something on Mother; we had something on her. We were all tied together in a great big mess. By the time Roy got killed, it was a way of life.’
