by Daisy White
BEFORE I
FOUND YOU
A gripping mystery full of killer twists
RUBY BAKER BOOK 2
DAISY WHITE
First published 2018
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
The author asserts their moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
©Daisy White
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
RUBY BAKER SERIES
GLOSSARY OF BRITISH AND PERIOD SLANG
CHARACTER LIST
FREE KINDLE BOOKS
For everyone who has believed in me, supported me, and read my books.
It means so much, and keeps me going through the rainy days!
Chapter One
Her screams are almost drowned out by the crashing waves.
Confused, I stop walking, and stare into the darkness. For a moment I think I’m imagining the small, slender figure standing in the middle of the stormy beach. The cool rain pours down, pelting off the road and making it difficult to see properly. I blink hard to clear my vision. My head is spinning from the few drinks I’ve had, but I know I’m not mistaken. Not a ghost or a nightmare, but a real person, standing far too close to the water.
My heart starts pounding against my ribcage, and I lick the salty spray off my lips before I shout to the others, “Kenny! Stop! There’s someone down there!” The wind whips my words away and tosses them down the beach, and I dash the rain from my eyes and stare hard into the darkness. She’s still there, and visible only because of the street lamps lining the promenade. Their stripes of eerie whiteness stretch just far enough to illuminate the dark figure on the shingle. A car driving fast on the wet road makes me spin around. A red E-Type Jaguar, gleaming in the streetlights as it heads east. Kenny is always lusting after a new ride, so even if he didn’t hear me surely he’ll turn to see the car. . .
I was already lagging behind, so nobody notices as I run towards the railings and lean over. A small figure with the wind blowing her dress sideways — oh God, is it a child? I grip the top rail tightly, straining my eyes to see properly. Whoever it is stands on a shingle bank, just above the high tide line. The sea has been whipped into a bubbling, foaming frenzy by the summer storm, and with every ebb and flow, it stretches its greedy, frothy fingers closer to the figure. Another scream, shrill and raw, or is it just a few storm-torn gulls, wheeling high in the dark clouds?
“Pearl!” I swing back around again, but the others still haven’t noticed.
I can hear Kenny humming along to The Searchers’ ‘Sweets For My Sweet’, the way he often does after a few beers, and I can see my cousin Pearl is still dancing along beside him, holding her pink cardigan over her head in a futile attempt to stay dry. James is wandering a couple of paces ahead, leather jacket over his own head, trying to light a cigarette by cupping the match in his hands. It’s only a fifteen minute walk home, and the middle of summer, so none of us minded a bit of rain.
“Kenny!”
Without waiting to see if they have stopped, I’m already climbing through the railings, hanging by my hands for a minute before dropping down onto the shingle. I drag my high-heeled sandals off and run towards the figure by the sea. The stones hurt my feet, and the wind almost knocks me sideways, but I keep going.
It is a little girl, with her hair blowing in the wind, dress floating out sideways, and her back to me. Before I can stagger down the last shingle bank to reach her I feel a hand on my arm, pulling me back. “Have you gone mad? What are you doing?” Kenny yells against the storm.
“Look! There’s a child down there!” I scream back, yanking myself free and jumping down the last few feet. I land awkwardly and stumble, bruising my knees on the wet stones. Right behind me, I hear Kenny curse, and then I forget everything except the dark little figure.
She’s still standing there, right at the very edge of safety as the waves roll over and smash down into a torrent of foam. The rain is blowing sideways across the beach, but now that I’m closer her voice carries over the wind and the waves. Instead of just a scream, I can hear the words, raw and painful — “Come back! Please come back!” shouted over and over again.
I’m aware of both Kenny and James beside me as we reach her, and without any hesitation, Kenny scoops her up and away from danger. Oblivious to us until now, she is clearly terrified at the intervention, screaming at him now and beating her small fists against his back, but he hangs on grimly.
“Is there anyone else out here? Calm down, we're trying to help you!” I shout at the little figure, trying to hold her hand, but she carries on fighting, gasping and coughing, her face soaked with rain and tears. I take a last look around the storm-battered beach, but it is empty. If there was someone with her, the waves have probably taken them.
James grabs my arm and I fling a hand out and cling onto Kenny’s shirt. For a moment the wind is too strong, and my heart is hammering in panic. The sea pounds the beach, deafening us, and the rain drives down in vicious torrents. The four of us cower on the shingle, just out of reach of the waves, and then slowly, as the next gust passes, we start to inch back up the beach.
The child is quiet now, cradled in Kenny’s arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. She makes no effort to hold on, but her chest is heaving. I wonder if she has fainted.
Victoria and Pearl are at the top of the beach and as we struggle up to them they throw cardigans over the figure in Kenny’s arms. Their exclamations of horror are lost in the wind. I have no breath to speak and my eyes are streaming with salt, my skin icy now, my ears stinging.
“Where the hell did she come from?” James asks, helping the girls to arrange the cardigans. “Here, Ken, you take a break, and I’ll carry her up to the road.”
Kenny nods, gasping for breath, dashing the rain away from his face. His dark hair is flattened and soaked, his eyes narrowed against the storm. His boxer’s nose and square face show a few scratches from the girl’s flailing hands. He passes his burden over awkwardly, and as James takes her, her eyes flash open, widen in horror and then close aga
in. But one small hand is now clinging to his shirt, and the eyelids flicker again as we watch anxiously. “You’re safe now,” I say. “We’ll get you warm and dry soon,” but her eyes remain defiantly shut.
“Take her to Ruby’s — we’re almost there anyway and I can’t see any obvious signs of injuries. She’s breathing and conscious so we don’t need an ambulance.” Pearl looks questioningly at Victoria, who nods. “Did you see anyone else down there?”
I shake my head. “No. But if there was . . . I mean, the waves are enormous . . .” I cast a glance at the child. I don’t want to say it in front of her, but if her mother was down there, standing where she was, the chances are high that she will have drowned by now. “Poor little thing — how the hell did she come to be out on a night like this?”
“Lucky we’ve got two nurses with us,” Kenny manages, his breathing slowing at last. “I thought that last wave was going to take her.”
I squeeze his hand and we make our way with difficulty to the steps, then up onto the road. We gather around James and his little burden, trying to shelter them from another gust of rain and wind. As we start to walk across the road, the stones bite into my feet and I realise I’ve left my shoes on the beach. Behind us the tide is still rising, and the dark mass of storm clouds on the horizon is whipping the sea into a Devil’s frenzy.
Staggering up Ship Street, we reach the salon and I lead the way round to the side door, yanking it open and ushering everyone inside. A narrow corridor leads to a second set of stairs and we troop through into the bedsit I share with Mary — my best friend for years — and her three-month-old baby.
Luckily, Mary is sitting up in bed, with both lamps lit, feeding Summer. She looks up in alarm as we fill up the room, dripping onto the floorboards.
“It’s OK now. You’re safe with us,” I tell the girl, who is still in James’ arms.
“What’s going on? Who is that?” Mary’s voice is shrill, and Summer breaks off feeding and gives a wail. She shushes the baby, holding her against her shoulder and patting her back.
“Put her on my bed, James, and I’ll make us a hot drink,” I say, realising how cold I am. My bare feet are sore and icy on the wooden floorboards. “Oh, and there are towels in that box to wrap her in so the sheets don’t get soaked. She really ought to change out of that wet dress . . .” I look at the child doubtfully, remembering the terror in her eyes when she looked up at James.
“Hi Mary,” Kenny says. “Sorry to burst in like this.” He rubs a hand across his wet black hair and scatters a spray of droplets across the table. “Sorry!”
Mary smiles awkwardly, glancing at the girl on my bed. “Are you going to tell me who this is? I thought you were going to a party at Beth’s?”
We all look at the little girl, and she stares blankly back, swaddled in towels now, her little face pinched with cold and her eyes huge.
“She was on the beach, just standing there screaming next to the waves as we came home along the seafront. I can’t imagine how she got there . . . She hasn’t said another word since we rescued her. What’s your name, darling?” Victoria leans towards the girl, but she shrinks back against my pillow, drawing her skinny legs underneath her. Like me, she wears no shoes.
I finish making tea for everyone, and hand an enamel mug of hot milk to the girl. She hesitates, then takes it without speaking, wrapping her thin hands around the warmth.
“Do you remember how you got on the beach?” James asks her, sipping his tea, brushing raindrops from his forehead with a tanned hand. He and Kenny are sprawled on chairs at our little table, while the other girls sit cross legged, dripping onto the red woven rug on the floor.
The child tilts her head and stares at him, eyes bright like a little bird, but she gives no other sign that she has heard his question and makes no attempt to answer it.
I rummage in the old chest and throw out rugs and more clean towels, then glance up at Pearl and Victoria. “Thank goodness you’re crashing at Kenny’s tonight or you’d have to get the bus back up the hospital. I wish I had a car.”
“It’s fine. I haven’t got a shift at the hospital until tomorrow afternoon. We’ve only got a couple more weeks of freedom and then it’s exams, so we might as well make the most of it,” Pearl says, shaking out her long red curls and starting to plait her hair in two wet ropes.
The girl on the bed takes the rug I offer her and drapes it around her shoulders. There is a large damp patch on my sheets despite the towels, and the floorboards are covered in puddles. Outside, the storm seems to be quieter, winding down as suddenly as it appeared.
“We can borrow your umbrella, and Kenny’s place is big enough for the four of us. We don’t want to upset Summer,” Victoria adds, getting up to see the baby. “I swear she’s bigger already and its only been four days since I saw her last. She looks so much like you, Mary.”
Abandoning all pretence of normality, we turn to look again at the little intruder. “If she would only talk to us, tell us where she came from,” I say, sitting down next to the girl and gently taking her cold hand. She lets me, but clenches the other fist on her mug until her knuckles go white. Her eyes are big and grey, rain-soaked hair dark brown, and she could be any age from about ten to fourteen.
“I’m Ruby. What’s your name?” I say gently to the girl, but she stares blankly at me, her eyes unfocused, mouth clenched tightly shut. “Do you come from Brighton?” Nothing, so I turn to the others. “She can stay on my bed for tonight and then I’ll ring the police from the salon in the morning. They should be able to find out where she came from.”
“You’ll be safe here,” Kenny tells the girl kindly, but she still doesn’t speak, just sips her drink, watching us all warily.
James throws his wet jacket over his shoulders. “Not often your night ends like this, but I’m glad she’s OK.” His dark hair is springing up in damp tufts, and his soaked shirt clings to his chest. “I can’t wait to get dry, so shall we head off?”
When the others have gone, I finish towelling off and grab a blanket to make a bed on the floor. Pearl was reluctant to leave but eventually I ushered them out, promising to telephone everyone in the morning when I’ve spoken to the police. Mary changes Summer’s nappy and puts her down into her little crib. The baby gives a little yawn and blinks hard, but then settles without a fuss.
“Are you sure about this?” Mary asks, casting a doubtful look at our guest, who is still perched on my bed in her nest of towels and blankets. Her eyes are open, but she stares vacantly around the room. She’s taller than she looked on the beach, or cradled in Kenny’s arms, with long gangly legs and a heart-shaped face. Her lashes are thick and dark, and the grey gaze finally comes to rest on the wall behind our table. “Why don’t you sleep in my bed? There’s just about room, I think.”
“It’s fine. What else can we do with her? It’s past midnight, and she’s just a child. Whatever has happened to her . . . and I don’t even want to think why she was down on the beach, but if she won’t even tell us her name, we can’t do much more. It'll be up to the police to find her parents. Don’t worry, I’ll be OK crashing on the floor.” I don’t say it but I want to be right next to the girl, just in case she starts screaming again. I’m not taking any chances with Summer in the room.
“You didn’t see anyone else on the beach?” Mary’s voice is hushed, and she leans towards me as I wash up the mugs.
“No, but I did wonder if she went down there with her mother and then . . . well, you know,” I whisper, “she was shouting for someone to come back. I don’t know if she's been in the sea but if she has she’s lucky to be alive. Those waves were enormous.”
“No wonder she won’t speak.” Mary shakes her head, rubbing her eyes.
She walks over to my bed. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “I’m Mary. My baby is called Summer. Do you like babies?”
For a second the frozen face registers something like interest, just a flicker of intelligence or emotion, and the lashes tremble
as she turns to Mary. I hold my breath, but then it’s gone, and she wraps her arms around her body.
“Would you like to put some dry clothes on? Look, I’ve got a nightdress. It will be much too big but we can roll up the sleeves . . .” I put it on the sheet next to her, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
The girl retreats further up my bed and curls tighter into her nest of blankets, so I give up. She is safe, and I’ll be sleeping right next to her in any case. Picking my way through the mess of discarded towels and rugs, I select another dry blanket and lay down on the bare boards, pulling the thickest blanket over my body and resting my head on a pile of dirty washing. I’ve slept in worse places. A last quick glance at the figure on my bed before I turn the lamp out reveals she is still in the same position, staring at the blank wall opposite the bed again. What does she see on the white-washed bricks? Or has she done what I did back then and pushed it all away to fester at the back of her mind?
Chapter Two
The baby is screaming again. Her piercing cries echo around the little bedsit, and bounce out into the dark streets below.
“I’ll do her this time, Mary,” I say, yawning, and fumbling with the sheets. “You need a break.”
Mary sits up too, her thin face strained, brow puckered with worry. “No, it’s alright, I’ll do it. Not like I can get back to sleep, is it?” She tries for a little smile but it never reaches her eyes.
I know what she means — what with Summer waking us up every few hours, and the nagging problem of the foundling from the storm, I’m struggling to get any rest at all. It’s been three days since we rescued the girl off the beach, and she’s never far from my thoughts. The police came to fetch her in response to my telephone call, but say they have no idea where she came from. There have been no schoolchildren reported missing, no frantic parents queuing up, desperate to be reunited with their daughter. The girl showed no emotion as she was led away by the police, and her blank stare bothers me more than if she had screamed and cried. I need to see her again. Apparently if they can’t trace any relatives she’ll have go into an orphanage. They don’t even know her name because she hasn’t spoken a word since her rescue. Pearl and Victoria are convinced that she came down on the train from London and her mother went into the sea and drowned, leaving her daughter on the beach. I told the police about her shouting “Come back!” at the waves and they seemed to think that made sense.
