by Daisy White
Beverly smiles quickly at me, seemingly ill at ease, but when I lean down to point out a style she meets my eyes and doesn’t look away, just carries right on staring. Her gaze is cool and appraising. Not quite so nervous then. “I think I want to go shorter, and maybe a change to either white blonde or really dark. My hair has always just been plain brown, which is quite boring, isn’t it?”
“Um . . . well, this cut here might suit you.” I flick over a couple of pages, pointing at a shorter cut with a full, straight fringe. My skin prickles and I almost flinch as our arms touch. Even though she nods and murmurs agreement, I sense she is still focusing on me instead of the photographs in the style book. She smells of clean soap and cheap perfume.
“Whatever you think, Ruby.”
“OK. This cut, then. We can backcomb it to get some height when we style it if you prefer . . . Now, your colour . . .” I study her hair, trying to keep professional despite her continued scrutiny. Maybe it’s just a nervous habit or something. Did she really murder her own daughter? I can hardly ask her. I go back to her hair, speaking a bit too loudly to cover my confusion. “It would be easier to go darker than lighter, because your hair already has these almost black streaks. Would you be happy with that?”
“What takes longer?” She’s very close, and I see the dark brown eyes are beautifully shaped, but slightly red, as though she has been crying, or didn’t get much sleep. Her sparse, spiky lashes are brown like her hair and she is still staring right at me with the kind of intensity I would usually reserve for a boyfriend.
“Excuse me?” I break eye contact and fuss with my pinny, pulling it straight and taking a comb from the big front pocket.
“What takes longer, the darker colour or the blonde?” she asks patiently in her soft voice.
Other clients are now appearing through the pink and gold door. I am dimly aware of Mary taking coats, Eve leading people over to the shampooing basins, Johnnie chit-chatting to a tall, elegant girl in a mauve raincoat and lace-up tan boots. But Beverly and I could be sealed in our own little bubble. Her intense, almost angry stare doesn’t suit her pretty face or that gentle voice, and I try hard to push away a niggling feeling of discomfort.
“It will take longer to go blonde, because the colour takes a couple of hours to bond with your hair,” I tell her, forcing a bright smile.
“I’ll go blonde then,” she tells me abruptly.
Right then. This is going to be a fun morning.
I hand Beverly over to Mary for shampooing, and after a moment hear my best friend say, “Oh sorry, was that water too hot?” Mary is clearly exhausted, and I really hope Summer settles by next month, because we become proper trainee hairdressers on the fifteenth of August. That means a few evenings of night school every month, so we’ll have to take it in turns to babysit.
I take another client to the chair nearest the door and start combing out her long grey hair, spritzing a bit of hairspray to keep the frizz out.
“Is that her?” my client whispers as I move to the front and start snipping her fringe, pinning back the coarse hair to make sure I’ve got the line straight. From the desk, Catherine is talking to a large, blonde woman, but she watches beadily, ready to jump in if I look like I'm making a mistake.
“Um . . . I’m not sure what you mean,” I say lamely.
My client shoots me a curious look. “Don’t you read the papers? I thought you were walking out with that reporter boy at the Brighton Herald?”
Nothing is a secret at Johnnie’s, and I consider my answer carefully, rejecting the honest, ‘Yes I had great sex with James, but it was a one night thing and now we’re just friends,’ for obvious reasons. You don't mention sex around here, especially when it isn’t linked to marriage, and even then people just refer to it as ‘bedroom things’.
I turn my attention back to my scissors. “Mary and I had a couple of days away last week. Her parents have just moved house, so we took the baby to see her mum in Horsham. I didn’t notice anything in the papers until we got back.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure Eve and Johnnie have told you all about Beverly Collins, and now here she is, bold as brass, walking in to have her hair done!”
I stick the long-handled comb between my teeth and unpin the rest of her hair, considering the cut. Perfect — it frames the large, rather bony face nicely. I glance at Catherine and she strides over, inspecting my handiwork.
“Pretty good, Ruby.” She fluffs the fringe with professional fingers, and then picks up the scissors to start the proper cut.
“Ruby? Your Miss Collins is ready for colour. Can you mix it up, please, when you’re finished here?”
I smile and grab a new towel. “All done!”
Beverly is waiting in the chair next to the store cupboard, a pink towel around her shoulders. She seems to be ignoring the buzz of gossip and the hail of stormy, curious and just plain excited looks. Her thin, pale fingers are flicking through a magazine but her eyes are on me.
“Sorry for the wait. I’ll just mix your colour and then my colleague will be ready for you.”
“Can’t you do the colour?”
“Um . . . No, I’m just a trainee. Catherine and Eve are the senior stylists.”
“I see. Thank you, Ruby.” She puts the magazine down and stares at my reflection in the mirror.
It’s a ten-minute wait while Eve finishes her client. I sweep up mountains of hair, fetch fresh towels and mix the new colour for my colleague’s inspection. The whole time I can feel that relentless stare boring into my back.
After a while, I wander back over to Beverly. “I’m so sorry for the wait. Would you like a cup of tea, or some water?”
“Tea would be lovely. Tell you what, I’ll come and help you make it,” she says politely.
“Oh! You can’t really, I’m afraid . . . Clients aren’t allowed out the back.”
“Rubbish. Come on, let’s go!” She’s already on her feet and waiting for me to lead the way.
Johnnie raises his eyebrows, and I half shrug at him as we wind our way through the busy salon and down the corridor to the backroom. “Are you doing tea, Rubes? Can you do a white with one for Miss Aylesdown, please?”
In the back room I hastily wash up two mugs and set the kettle to boil. We’re nearly out of biscuits, but I scoop up the two remaining custard creams and pop them into the saucers.
“I imagine you're wondering why I’m here,” Beverly says, leaning against the wall and making no effort to help. She still has the pink towel draped around her shoulders. Her green dress is shapeless and hangs off her small, thin body.
“Well, I suppose you came to get your hair done, like everyone else,” I tell her reasonably.
“Yes and no. I don’t care if my hair is grey, brown or rainbow-coloured, but I did need to see you, Ruby Baker.”
I swing round, abandoning my tea making, and meet her eyes in surprise. “Me? Why?”
“You must know where I have been. They think I murdered my own daughter.” She shows no signs of distress, and her expression doesn’t change. “My own beautiful daughter . . . Of course I didn’t do any such thing, and I’ve spent ten years locked away. Ten years of my life that I could have spent looking for my Ella. When I saw in the paper that the police had found a girl on the beach, I thought she had come home to me. How utterly stupid was that? I even went to the police station and asked to see her.”
“Did you see the girl?” I ask, interested, mostly because of course the same thought had just occurred to me. But life is never that easy.
“Yes. She's about the same age as Ella would be now, but she has grey eyes, and she doesn’t have a scar on her cheek. Ella has one, here,” she indicates her own face, “much smaller than mine, of course. The police did ask me to see if I could get the girl to talk. They said she hasn’t spoken since she was rescued, poor little thing. I get the impression they don’t know what to do with her . . .”
“I found her on the beach,” I tell her suddenly.
“I was walking back from a party with some friends, and she was standing on the shingle bank screaming into the storm. So she can speak . . .”
Beverly’s gaze drops for a moment, and she picks at her thumbnail. “It was terrible, you know. I allowed myself to think it really might be Ella. And then when it wasn’t, it was like a punch in the stomach.”
“I’m so sorry, and I can’t imagine how awful that must be, but what does it have to do with me?” I stare back at her. I am sorry, it's true, but there is something very strange about this woman.
“Everything. It has everything to do with you, Ruby Baker. If I had any doubts, you just confirmed that I am doing the right thing.”
“I did?” My stomach does an uncomfortable flip, as though I’ve been found guilty of some crime myself. It’s almost like Beverly is two people — her pretty, small-boned physical appearance differs so much from this intense, tragic presence that inhabits it. A forceful determination shines through her initial nervousness. She is clearly on a mission, and a little thing like having her hair done isn’t going to distract her. I lick my dry lips and wait, heart hammering. What the hell is she going to say?
She moves quickly, and for the first time I can see a shadow of genuine emotion flicker across her face as she puts one hand over mine on the table and squeezes my fingers. Then the emotion is gone and her words come harsh and fast.
“Isn’t it obvious? I want you to find Ella for me.”
Chapter Four
“Me? But why?” My heart thunders in my ears, echoing through my head like a drumbeat.
“I heard about what you did with that murderer earlier this year. My neighbour said you ran Ruby Baker’s Investigation Bureau and you never gave up, even when the police told you to shut it down. You had the support of the whole town. That’s what I want, that support, because believe me, someone knows something about Ella. She was taken, and I was framed for her murder. That takes planning and local knowledge. Even the police admitted it was possible. The only thing they didn’t have was a . . . ,” she falters slightly, but recovers, swallowing hard, “They never had a body.”
“But . . .” My mind is still spinning. “That was different. I didn’t mean to make a career out of it. My best friend was kidnapped, and she was expecting a baby, so I had to do something!”
The steady gaze doesn’t waver, despite me spilling hot tea over my hand and swearing in agitation. She doesn’t have to say any more. I turn away and set out the tray carefully, adding the milk jug, trying to marshal my thoughts into some sort of logical order. Could she be innocent? The thought of a child you had given birth to, cared for, raised to four years old, being snatched away is horrific. To then be accused of killing that same child. . . Was it Catherine who said she could have hung for murder?
“Please, Ruby. I’ve been thinking about it for ten years, and when I was released, my neighbour was telling me about your investigations . . . She said you were new in town, that you were different. Now you say you found this child on the beach . . . I realise you’ll want to think about it, do some checking up on me, but please, don’t believe everything you hear.”
I pick up the tray. “I do need to think about it. Look, I can’t really talk now, but can you meet me after work? Down at Brenda’s Café, about half past six?”
Her face glows with real relief, and those hard brown eyes show a tiny glint of something that could be triumph, quickly masked. “Yes, I know Brenda’s and I’ll be there. Don’t worry about my hair colour. Like I said, I don’t care about it. Getting the appointment was the easiest way to see you.”
“Well . . . Are you sure about the hair?” I’m relieved, because I really do need to think hard about this unexpected request, and I can do without another hour of Beverly Collins’ close attention. Although she seems to have relaxed a bit now, and I can even see glimpses of what I assume is her real personality, everything about her is hidden under a hard shell. Maybe that’s what you have to do to survive in prison for ten years.
“Oh yes, I’m sure. Didn’t you see the way they all look at me? The child murderer is back in town. That lot turned against me as soon as it was whispered that I might have been involved. Not much friendly support there.” She scowls. “You have that cup of tea for yourself, Ruby, and I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” I mutter, still stunned, staring after her for a second, and then pulling myself together.
She marches back out to the salon, and I follow uncomfortably with the tea tray. The room is full of chattering women, and the familiar smells of shampoo, nail polish and disinfectant calm my whirling brain. First I’ll get on with my job, and then I’ll think about this unexpected request. Sensible and ordered, that’s me. But my hand shakes as I pass the cup of tea over to a client, and my heart is still thumping uncomfortably hard.
“Is she off already?” Mary asks wide-eyed, setting down the dustpan and brush. “I thought she had a colour booked?”
I sigh. “Tell you later. Do you want me to do Miss Thomas’s manicure as I’m free?”
“Please, then I can crack on with the shampooing.” Mary yawns, and rubs her eyes furiously. “I wish I wasn’t so bloody tired all the time!”
“It’ll pass. You’re doing fine,” I tell her, stifling yet another yawn of my own.
Despite my good intentions, I drift off a bit while I’m busy painting Miss Thomas’s nails, and she snaps at me for smudging a bit on her thumb. I blink drowsily like an idiot and drag my thoughts back from a little girl snatched from her mother — missing for ten years. If she is still alive why has nobody found her? Even in my own mind Ella keeps getting mixed up with the Beach Girl. How strange that Beverly should be released and then a seemingly motherless child appears on Brighton beach. But she isn’t Ella. Her own mother would know her, and there are, as she said, physical differences. It is odd, though.
The day passes in the usual blur of activity, but despite repeated questioning from Catherine and Eve, I tell no one about Beverly’s strange request. I explain her quick exit by saying she didn’t like the stares and gossiping. At four, during my cigarette break, I run down the road towards the sea, inhaling the golden warmth of the day and enjoying the hazy shimmer of the blue waves as they lap the beach.
There is a telephone box at the end of Ship Street, down on the promenade, and I wait impatiently for a well-dressed man to finish his conversation before diving in and shoving a coin in the slot. The receiver is sticky with dirty fingerprints, and I hold it gingerly while I dial the number from memory.
The phone rings for ages, and I drum my fingers on the hot glass side of the telephone box, breathing in the stale smells of metal and sweat. A bored voice finally says, “News desk, how can I help?”
“Hi Kenny, it’s Ruby. Can you talk for a minute?”
“Hallo, Rubes. Before you ask, I haven’t got anything else on Beach Girl, and the police haven’t either, according to my source. I’m not exactly chasing any hot stories at the moment. The highlight of my week so far, after our poor little Beach Girl of course, has been some woman jumping off the pier . . .” he sighs.
“Oh, how awful — did she drown?”
“No, turns out she’s a former diving champion and expert swimmer who thought she’d get a bit of practice in. Unfortunately most people panic when they see a sixty-something old lady bail off the end of the pier . . .”
“Quite. Look Kenny, this isn’t a story for you, but I want to check something on Beverly Collins. You know about her?”
His voice sharpens with interest, and I picture him sitting up straight and raking his hand through his hair, his grey eyes gleaming at the prospect of some real news. “Of course! She was released two weeks ago. That was front-page news. So what do you want to know? Or should I ask why?”
“She turned up at the salon today, and asked me to help her find her missing daughter, Ella. I want to know exactly what she was convicted of, where she was in prison . . . And anything else you might have on her backgro
und, I suppose . . . Hang on.”
An old woman is tapping furiously on the window of the telephone box, and pointing at her watch. I’ve only been in here a couple of minutes! Frowning, I shake my head firmly at her and turn my back.
Kenny is clearly impressed with my news. “Bloody hell. She actually asked you to help her? Why?”
“Ruby Baker’s Investigation Bureau — remember? Her neighbour helped look for Mary when she was kidnapped, and she told Beverly about me. Now Beverly thinks I’m some kind of amateur detective. Before you ask, Beach Girl is not her missing daughter, because I thought of that too, and she saw it in the paper and went rushing down to the police station thinking it might be Ella . . .”
“Hmmm, poor woman, that must have hit her hard. You make a far prettier sleuth than Inspector Plod anyway, and as far as I remember you were far more successful in tracking down the perpetrator of one particular crime.”
“That was because it was personal, Kenny, and you know it. So can you find out about the conviction, and let me know any other information you might have? Please? If there is a story in this you know I’ll come straight to you.”
“I'll tell you if you go on a date with me. Or we could skip the date and just make out?”
“Kenny!” But I’m smiling. I suppose one day Kenny might get a girlfriend, and then we’ll all be safe.
He’s laughing too. “OK, OK, give me an hour and I’ll ring you back. Are you at the salon?”
“No,” I say quickly, “I don’t want to tell anyone until I know if I’m going to take this on. I’ll ring you after work from the phone box.”
“OK Rubes, I’ll get onto it right now. Unless of course I get a major story in . . .”
I put the receiver down, surprised to find my hand is damp with sweat, and I’m a little bit dizzy. Well, it is a hot day. The packed beach is decorated with colourful day-trippers, and the man who rents deckchairs seems to have given out all his stock. He waves as I exit the telephone box, and I wave back, standing for a minute to enjoy the scene. The impatient old lady has vanished, presumably to find an empty telephone box elsewhere.
