by Daisy White
“I’ve agreed to take the case. Well, I’ve agreed to have a chat with a few people and see if I can find anything. It is awful, Mary, she lost her daughter and then was locked up for ten years. Imagine if it was Summer!” I bend down and shake the pink teething rattle for the baby. She reaches tiny fingers up and grabs it in her fist, giving triumphant squeaks.
“How do you know she’s innocent, though? I’m not trying to be cruel, but she was in prison for a long time.” Mary is folding nappies in a patch of sunlight, perched on the edge of her bed with her bare feet tucked under her. Her hair is damp and her thin face pale, but she looks a bit happier than she has lately, and Summer seems to be in one of her adorable moods.
“Well, she took a big chance coming back. Now she’s out she could have just disappeared, but she’s come back to where it all started to look for her daughter.” I sigh, stripping off my sweaty uniform, chucking it in a pile by my bed. I really need to do some washing . . .
“I suppose. Shall I do us some fish in cheese sauce? We’ve got some carrots and you got a tin of peas so we can have a feast!” Mary studies me for a moment. “You know, if you want to try and help this woman I can’t stop you. And of course, if you need a hand. . . being a mum hasn’t totally wiped out my fighting spirit!”
Down to bra and knickers, and luxuriating in the cool salty breeze that pours in the open window, I smile at her. “Last time I asked you to help I got you kidnapped!”
Mary shrugs. “That wasn’t your fault. Besides, if this Beverly woman is innocent, I would really like to help. Just find out a bit more about her before you jump in feet first.”
“Yes, Mum!” I grin at her, and she chucks a handful of clean nappies at me.
“Grow up, Rubes, and we really need to do some washing. Summer’s stuff is the only clean pile in the place . . .”
For once, Summer goes down into her little crib easily. She doesn’t scream her way to sleep, but settles after her bottle of milk with a contented sigh.
“She’s quite happy with a bottle in the evening now, and of course she has to have it in the day, but it’s just so much easier to feed without one in the middle of the night.” Mary sighs, smoothing a gentle hand over the little head and tucking the sheet around her baby. She yawns wide and long, before collapsing onto her own bed.
Deciding not to disturb the peace, I perch on a chair and pick up an old copy of Tatler. I wonder if we might be able to take turns going out in the evening again fairly soon. Going to coffee bars and parties, laughing, dancing and having a few drinks is what we used to live for.
I’m sure Mary could do with getting all decked out for a night at Baby D’s or even a show. Turning to ask her, the words freeze on my lips. She is fast asleep, her pale face shuttered and calm, lips slightly parted, and hands flung out across the sheet.
Smiling, I tiptoe over and tuck her in, before creeping over to make another cup of tea. Taking my mug to bed I grab some notepaper and a pencil from the pile of rubbish on the table. As the light begins to fade I scribble all I know about the case of Beverly Collins and her missing child. What would Ella look like now? She’d be fourteen, of course, but what has happened to her in those ten years? Or is Beverly chasing a dream . . . Maybe she did kill her daughter and she’s just deceiving herself. A mad person could easily get confused. But I don’t think so, and I don’t believe she is mad. It’s that instinct again, scratching away like a disturbed insect somewhere deep in my stomach. It’s the same sort of feeling I have about Beach Girl.
I wake to screams as usual, and rub my eyes, glancing sleepily at the clock on the wall. Two in the morning is not a great time to be jolted out of sleep. Mary is already sliding out of bed, picking up the baby, yawning and ghostly against the shadow-strewn room.
“Do you want help?” I mumble, but Mary shakes her head.
“No thanks, I’ll feed her and see if she’ll settle again.”
“Sure you don’t want me to do the bottle?” I ask without thinking, and then bite my tongue.
“I said no.”
I curl back up under my sheet. Although the baby drinks from a bottle so the babysitters and I can feed her, Mary still says she likes breastfeeding and she’ll do whatever she wants with her baby. My cousin Pearl thinks she’s mad.
Scrunching my eyes up, I drift off to sleep, vaguely aware of Mary putting the baby back down and crawling into her own bed. By five the golden glitter of daylight is starting to spread across our floorboards and Summer is screeching again.
Despite that sick, dreamy feeling that goes with being woken, then falling back into a deep sleep, I jump out of bed with more energy than I’ve had in the last three months. As Mary sorts out the baby and has a quick wash in the bowl, I organise piles of dirty clothes next to the sink.
By half past six, the floor is swept, the breakfast mugs and plates washed up, and half the wet clothes are pegged out over the bath. The other half, mostly Summer’s nappies, are bundled into the wicker basket for us to take down to the salon. There is a little courtyard out the back where we hang towels to dry, and Johnnie is fine about us using it for household washing too.
I make the beds, and we clatter downstairs and out the door. Pausing by the dustbins, I give Summer a kiss before her mum takes her off to the babysitter for the day. Mary is still very pale, but she has a sparkle in her eyes, has washed her hair, and she hasn’t said any more about being a bad mum.
“Morning, Rubes!” Johnnie breezes in just as I’m getting the salon ready for business.
“You’re early!” I tell him, amazed. Dedicated to his business though he is, Johnnie is never early.
His blue, slightly feline eyes have that familiar glint of mischief, and he leans his elbows on the reception desk, grinning at me. “Guess what I found out last night?”
I put a fresh towel on each chair, half frowning at my employer. He often plays these guessing games and it drives me mad. “I don’t know!”
He wrinkles his nose. “Boring! I know something else about Beverly Collins.”
“And I would be interested because?” I try not to smile back.
“Oh angel, I know you so well, and you have forgotten my excellent Brighton spy system. You were seen meeting Miss Collins at Brenda’s last night, and you were all distracted and excited before that. She’s asked you to help her, hasn’t she? To settle back into her home town, or to find the daughter she claims was kidnapped?”
Reluctantly impressed, I grin back at him. “I think you’re wasted as a hairdresser. You should be in the Secret Service! OK, yes, she asked me to help her find Ella. I spoke to Kenny for some background, and it is interesting. I only decided last night that I would investigate properly, so I was going to tell you all today.”
Johnnie nods slowly. “Ruby Baker’s Investigation Bureau is back in action. Catherine is going to hate you, and most people round here are convinced that woman did murder her daughter. Because if she didn’t, where the hell is her daughter now?”
“I know. I already thought of all that . . . She told me that people lied to the police, and Kenny said something about evidence being planted at her house — some of Ella’s clothes with blood on them, I think . . . So go on, what did you find out?”
He sits, picking up a pencil and flicking through the appointment book. Behind the desk, the pink and gold cherubs that decorate the walls of the salon stare blindly out at us. Some children shout in the road outside, and a delivery van rumbles past. At last Johnnie looks up and adopts a schoolmaster tone, “This came straight from one of my friends, who just happened to be close to the case. No names, darling, obviously, but here we go . . . One of the main pieces of evidence was given by an eight-year-old girl, Laura Grieves, who was looking after the smaller kids when Ella went missing. It seems she turned up at the police station a few months ago and admitted she lied in her interviews. She claimed she was just scared of being blamed, but now she’s got a child of her own, it’s been weighing on her mind. Naturally the polic
e didn’t do anything about it, because Beverly had nearly finished her prison sentence anyway, and because it would have got in all the papers, thus making them look incompetent.”
Glancing at the clock, I quickly make up some conditioner, and move a huge glass shampoo bottle over to the sink. My mind is whirling, scrabbling to make sense of this. I’m also trying to recall my conversations with Kenny and Beverly yesterday. “This Laura girl, she was the one who said Beverly took Ella into her house with her to get a drink?”
“Right. So the key witness was unreliable. Which leads to other questions. Why would this Laura girl suddenly step forward with evidence in Beverly’s favour, just months before the poor woman was due to be released? I’d say this is a case worth working on, Miss Baker. Now pop out the back and make us all some tea. The troops will be arriving soon.”
“I thought you were convinced she was a murderer?”
“I’m allowed to change my mind, darling. Now get to work!”
I consider this new insight as I head out the back to make a tray of tea. If one person lied, then it does give more credence to the rest of Beverly’s story. But there is still the question of who would set someone up for the murder of a child. You’d have to have a pretty serious motive, so it had to be someone she knew. I wonder if her boyfriend really did go to America . . .
Eve and Catherine arrive together, with Mary panting at the rear. “The stupid bus was late! And then Summer wouldn’t settle. Mrs Carpenter is so lovely though, and she gave her a new teddy . . .”
“Don’t panic, we’re all organised,” Johnnie tells her.
It’s another busy morning, but all the time I’m shampooing and combing and sweeping, my brain is busy nagging at the Beverly Collins case. So many pieces don’t fit. I can’t help but think that Ella is most likely dead. Would knowing that help Beverly? Or is it better to carry on hoping that somewhere your missing child is fed and warm and loved? I don’t know, but my heart catches painfully at the thought.
My client chatters away as I rinse off the shampoo, “I hear that Collins woman was in here yesterday and you turned her away. Very sensible. I don’t know how she got away with that. It’s a terrible thing, to kill your own child!”
“No, we didn’t turn her away. She changed her mind about her colour and rearranged her appointment.” I squeeze out the wet hair and wrap it carefully into a pink towel. “If you go and sit by the window, Mrs Haverton, then Eve will be with you shortly.”
Clearly annoyed at not getting any more gossip, the sharp-featured woman stamps across the salon to the chair I am indicating. Nearing the door she steps sideways to avoid Mary’s broom, and tuts loudly. She looks up and catches my bemused expression. She rolls her eyes and then winks. Mrs Haverton is known for her bad temper. According to Mrs Carpenter she was asked to leave the WI because of her constant arguing. A big disgrace around here.
By lunch break I still haven’t mentioned anything about the Collins case to Eve and Catherine. I’m gathering the courage to mention it when we finish tonight. Johnnie’s right, I am going to be very unpopular, and at a time when I most need everyone to help.
Kenny strolls in through the door, grinning. His white shirt is hanging out as usual, and his dark hair is greasy and ruffled. Behind him, James gives us all a vague smile and then meets my eyes with a proper grin. James is broader and more muscular than his best friend and fellow reporter, but with the same messy hair. His tan turns his blue eyes turquoise, and the mischievous smile makes most girls weak at the knees. We never officially dated as such, and after that one weird night on the beach, we seem to have gone back to being friends without too much effort. That flash of attraction is still there, but having seen him around the town when we go out, I get the impression James would be a terrible boyfriend. Whereas he is a pretty amusing, dependable friend.
“Off you go, girls,” Catherine says, “Twenty-five minutes only, please. We’ve got two brides coming in at two and I need some help with manicures.”
“Come on, we’ll run down to the promenade and grab a hotdog or something!” Kenny says, as Mary and I down tools and pick up our purses.
“You sure you don’t want to go upstairs and have a sleep, Mary?” I ask.
“No, I’m alright today. Besides I want to know what the boys say about Beverly.”
The road is crowded with day-trippers and locals enjoying a sunny lunch break. But the lunchtime queues for hot dogs and fish and chips on the seafront stretch out along the road.
“Let’s go to Brenda’s. It’ll be quicker and we might get a seat,” Mary says.
Despite the heat beating down in waves, we hurry down the road to Brenda’s, and grab a table outside. I take a deep breath of the warm salty air, casting a longing look at the cool blueness of the sea. Maybe after work.
“We should take Summer down the beach one evening,” Mary says, as if reading my thoughts. “Now she’s bigger I bet she’d like the sea.”
Kenny passes round cigarettes and he and James lean back in their chairs, smoking as we wait to be served. We know them both so well that the silence is easy, and broken only by Mary’s stomach rumbling.
“What are you having then?” Brenda beams at us, wiping a pudgy work-scarred hand on her grubby apron.
“Oh, tea and two chips please,” James says, waving away my offer to pay, and glancing at his watch. When Brenda stamps off towards the kitchen he adds, “Kenny says you’re doing a bit of an investigation for Beverly Collins?”
I nod, narrowing my eyes against the sun. “I am, but I can’t help feeling that she might not be happy with anything I uncover.”
“You mean if her daughter is dead,” he suggests, breathing out a plume of smoke and stubbing out his cigarette.
“Yes. I get the impression that all this time she’s been hanging on to the thought that as soon as she was free she was going to find her daughter. But I was thinking last night . . . If you hated someone enough to set them up, and kidnap their daughter while they went to rot in prison, why would you care one jot what happened to the child?”
Chapter Seven
Brenda brings us two baskets of crisp, salty chips, and Kenny drenches one in vinegar before he and James grab handfuls.
“Nothing from the police on Beach Girl? You know, after Ken said you called, Rubes, I was convinced it was going to be one of those miracles –another front-page story about a wronged mother reunited with her long-lost child.” James eyes are gleaming at the prospect of a decent story, and his face is alight with interest.
“Nothing from the police. Sorry. What can they do, though? She won’t speak, and nobody has come forward saying they know her. It really upset Beverly, though, because she did see your story, and thought it might be Ella.”
Mary sips her tea thoughtfully. “It's such a strange coincidence that she appears on the beach just after Beverly Collins is back in Brighton. Normally I’d say I don’t believe in coincidence . . . It is going to be pretty hard to get anyone to talk to us, though. Most of our clients are convinced she is guilty. They’re going to be a bit upset if we start poking around with the aim of proving her innocent.”
“That’s the whole point. We aren’t doing it to prove her innocent — we're doing it because there might be a missing child out there. OK, a fourteen-year-old girl who has no idea who she is.”
“I’ll be quick because I know you need to get back, but I do have a lot of information for you. It was pretty quiet at work this morning, so I’ve got you about ten pages of newspaper clippings to work through. Here’s a list of names, too, and in some cases, addresses, of people involved. I’ve added the boyfriend, Barry Green, even though he emigrated to the US two years before Ella disappeared. There’s a picture of him . . . here.” James is in high-energy mode, elbows on the table, turquoise eyes brilliant as he explains names on the list. At one point he covers my hand with his to make a point, but releases it gently almost at once.
Mary and I study the photograph of Beverly’s b
oyfriend. Ella’s father, I think. He’s not classically good-looking, but he’s smiling arrogantly for the camera like he imagines he might be a bit of a hunk. Blue eyes, brown hair, thin face.
Kenny yawns, ruffling his hair, squinting into the sun. “Inspector Roberts died last year, but I was right about Appleton, he’s still in the area and he’s a DS now, soon to be Inspector. Not that the police will talk to you any more than they’ll talk to us. Shame it wasn’t Hammond though, because I agree with you — he’s a good copper, whatever Johnnie says.”
Our eyes meet, and he winks at me, before taking another cigarette and pushing the packet around the table.
“Thanks for this. Are you really not working on anything good at the moment?” Mary asks, knowing that both of them, especially James, are desperate for promotion.
Kenny shakes his head. “The usual rubbish. Mostly we feed the boring stuff to Ben on the night desk. This week I’ve had lost dogs, house fires, and crummy show reviews . . . Boring basics.”
I grab a last handful of chips and check my watch. “Right, we need to get back. Thanks for the lunch, boys!” I carefully fold the sheet of paper with the names and addresses on, and the bundle of clippings, and pop the whole lot into my purse.
“We’re going to the beach for a swim tonight, and maybe the roller rink on Friday if you fancy coming along?” James says suddenly, holding my gaze as we stand up.
Surprised, because like I said, I was sure our little fling was long over, I tell myself firmly he is only asking as a friend. At least, I hope he is.
“Go on, Ruby, I know you’d love a swim. I’ll be ages picking Summer up, and Mrs Carpenter is going to insist I stay for dinner. You know how sweet she is,” Mary says quickly.
The sea glitters invitingly as I glance across the road. Half hidden by the colourful crowds, waves break onto the patchy sand with a rumble of cool water, and a froth of lacy foam.
Mary smiles encouragingly at me, and I nod. “If you’re sure . . .”
