BEFORE I FOUND YOU a gripping mystery full of killer twists

by Daisy White

  “I told you before I can’t take your money, Will. Bloody hell, that’s five pounds!”

  I know what’s going to come next: his eyes darken and his expression tightens, as though with annoyance or hurt. “Suit yourself.”

  I put a hand on his arm. “It is really sweet of you, but I’m OK, honestly.”

  He just shrugs me off, and we are both quiet for a moment. A lorry rumbles past out on the road, grinding gears as it struggles up the hill.

  “I need to go.”

  He moves towards the road, and for a second I think I’ve really offended him, but then he turns, amber eyes glinting. “I suppose I’ll have to stick around and make sure you don’t get yourself killed, won't I. Maybe I can even help. You just . . . be careful. People around here, they believe that woman is guilty. You nosing around will be like poking a stick in a wasp's nest.”

  I run out into the road and up the hill to the salon. Part of me wishes I could introduce Will to my friends, to see him normally on a night out, and part of me wishes he would just leave town for good.

  * * *

  Will is my stepdad George’s son, and he’d never even seen him up until earlier this year, when his mum died and he decided to track him down. I know he’s had a strange couple of years, but he can still be a bit strange and intense at times . . . He is always trying to give me money, or once, a little silver necklace with a bunch of flowers. Still, he has become a sort of friend. I’m amazed Johnnie’s spy system hasn’t discovered us yet.

  Will isn’t his real name, but he said it was better if I don’t know it. That’s the second reason I can’t introduce him to my friends. I’m not convinced, although he won’t talk about it, that all his work is legal, and somehow, I don’t want to know what else he does, who he works for at night, or why he turns up in a suit after a supposed shift at the market. When he talks about his past up north, and his dead mum, I always get the impression he leaves all the bad bits out. There are a lot of other things he won’t tell me, and he has an awful lot of money for someone working down the market. But it’s OK to have secrets, because I’m not perfect either, and there is still a lot I don’t tell him . . .

  Letting myself quietly into our little bedsit, I’m expecting to find Mary and the baby fast asleep, but all I can hear as I creep through the outer door is the sound of sobbing. For a second I pause, puzzled. Then I realise it isn’t a baby crying, but an adult. I run upstairs as fast as I can, and yank open the second door.

  Summer is fast asleep in her crib, apparently sleeping peacefully, but my best friend is huddled at the end of her bed, crying like she’ll never stop.

  “Mary? Mary, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is Summer OK?” The words pour out of my mouth in a frightened jumble. “Mary!”

  Gradually Mary starts to sniff in between sobs, and take great gulping breaths between the floods of tears. I stay crouched next to her, one arm firmly around her shoulders, kissing her cheek and stroking her hair — comforting her as though she was still a child herself.

  “Sorry Ruby, I’m such a stupid cow. I didn’t mean for you to come back and find . . .” Her voice trails off pathetically and the sentence ends in a whimper.

  “It’s OK, I’m here now. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” I keep glancing over at the crib but the baby looks fine in the shadows, and the little chest is rising and falling. She makes a little snuffling noise and curls her fists tighter. Not the baby then . . .

  “I’m so ashamed,” Mary whispers. “She was crying and crying. She wouldn’t stop screeching, and I tried everything. The gripe water, feeding her, changing her nappy . . . Then I just carried her around rocking her and singing. You know, like we do.”

  I nod. “But she was still crying?”

  “Yes, and I was crying myself by then. I didn’t know what to do. Why can’t I calm her down? I’m supposed to be her mother!” Mary’s voice rises again, ending in a high-pitched wail. Her tear-stained face is white in the shadowy room, and she is still hunched over her knees, picking at the sleeve of her nightdress.

  “Oh sweetheart, you should have brought her down to the beach . . . At least we could have all helped, and you wouldn’t have been by yourself,” I tell her, almost in tears myself. Guilt settles hot and uncomfortable, deep in my stomach. While I was swimming, and laughing with the others, Mary was suffering.

  Mary pulls slightly away from me, frowning. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t do that because then everyone would see what a bad mother I am.”

  “You aren’t!”

  “I am, and do you know what’s worse? When she wouldn’t settle I was angry with her. Angry that I was trying so hard to comfort her but she wouldn’t let me. So I . . . I shook her hard and slapped her leg. Then I put her in her cot and went outside onto the stairs. I shut the door, Ruby, and let her cry.”

  “What happened then?” I whisper.

  Mary shrugs. “Eventually she stopped, and went to sleep. I went to check and she was fine. But when I wasn’t angry any more I felt so ashamed. I hurt my own baby, Ruby.”

  I stare at her, shocked that this person exists as part of my best friend. Has being a mum done this to her? Mary has always been the happiest person I know. . .

  We sit side by side, perched on the end of the bed, neither of us speaking. It isn’t an easy silence. Eventually I get up and ask if Mary would like a cup of tea before we go to sleep.

  “No thanks, Ruby, I think I’ll just go straight to sleep. Summer’s bound to be awake again in a few hours,” she says, curtly now.

  She’s obviously regretting telling me everything, and I want to reassure her that I’ll help in any way I can, that we always get through everything that life throws at us. But just now, I can see all she needs is to sleep. We can talk properly in the morning.

  I creep around making a hot drink for myself, before undressing and curling into bed. The baby stirs in her cot, and I tense, but she gives a little sigh and then starts snoring. Mary is huddled up in the sheet with her back to me. I’m sure she’s not asleep but I can’t think what to say. My mum used to scream at us all, and make us older kids look after the babies when they cried. She was always running around, red-faced, handing out bottles of milk, or dumping plates of food on the table. Of course when George moved in Mum was even busier. He made her give up work to look after him. It wasn’t long before he decided she wasn’t very good at it, and that was when he started to hit her.

  But she did love us, I suppose. I mean I do remember her slapping the little ones around the legs if they were naughty, and whacking my backside when I ran across the road without looking, but that’s normal, isn’t it? I don’t remember her getting really cross with the babies . . . Finishing my drink, I set the empty mug onto the floor beside my bed and settle down for the night.

  * * *

  “Mary looks awful this morning. Did the gripe water not help?” Catherine asks me as we bustle around making tea and setting up for the morning.

  “No. Not really. I went out for a swim, and I think Summer cried non-stop for a couple of hours and she just couldn’t settle her. Poor Mary,” I add, anxious not to criticise in any way. Despite my efforts, Mary has barely spoken to me this morning, and seems to be trying to forget that last night ever happened.

  Johnnie takes his mug of tea, frowning down the list of appointments, “Nothing until half past nine. That’s unusual and not good for business.”

  “Oh, the Clackett girls cancelled, Johnnie. I forgot to tell you. They rang at closing time to say they had a shift change at the cafe and couldn’t make it,” Eve says suddenly, tapping her forehead. “I swear I’m getting old before my time. I keep forgetting everything.”

  “How annoying. Sorry, Eve darling, not your memory, but the cancellations.” My employer drums his fingers on the desk. “Still, I’m sure Ruby has some ideas on how we can fill in the time. Make sure everything is set up ready for the clients, and then I’ll let her fill you in.”

  Uh-oh. Thanks, Johnnie
. Catherine is going to hate me, and I’m not even sure I can count on Mary after last night. As well as maintaining a barely civil silence as we went through our usual morning routine, she also refused my offer of tea and toast. No, all things considered, now is really not a good time for discussing Beverly Collins.

  I linger over my sweeping, and even start rearranging the nail polish cupboard, until Johnnie claps his hands theatrically. “Now ladies, we have a new case for Ruby Baker’s Investigation Bureau. Over to you, Rubes!”

  I take a deep breath. “You all know that Beverly Collins is back in Brighton, and you know why. Now whatever anyone feels about Beverly, if she didn’t kill her daughter, there is still a missing girl to find. I’ve decided to use the investigation bureau we set up to find Mary, to find out what happened to Ella Collins. Of course it all happened ten years ago, so it will be difficult . . .”

  Catherine sighs. “I admire you wanting to help, Ruby love, but that woman is guilty. She murdered her daughter and lied about it. There was no question that she didn’t do it. I think one of the other kids out playing with Ella even said she took the child back inside with her that day. Beverly told everyone she left her daughter in the road.”

  I knew Catherine would be hard to win round, but the whole point of the investigation bureau was that everyone pitched in to help. People who would never speak to the police spoke to us, or knew someone who had their hair cut in the salon and passed on information via our clients. As Beverly said, someone must know something.

  Mary nods, which could mean anything. She still has that blank, exhausted look, and although her hair is pinned up, it is lank and greasy. She may have fixed a smile on her face, but her eyes look sore and red from exhaustion and crying. She makes no further contribution to the conversation.

  Eve is leaning against the wall, drinking tea, head tilted to one side like a curious bird. “I reckon it was that boyfriend of hers, Barry Green I think he was called, might have been involved somehow. I’m not saying Beverly didn’t do it, and I won’t until you get some hard evidence that shows she’s innocent, but did Barry really go abroad? The police never found him, you know, and anyone can say they’re going off to America, can’t they? It’s another thing to actually arrive. He was a right piece of work, too. His parents owned a fairground ride — the dodgems if I remember rightly — and he got Beverly pregnant at sixteen. Her parents kicked her out, of course, but some relative, an aunt if I remember rightly, lent them a house on White Oak. Probably a step up because I think she was brought up in Carlton Hill. Then of course she had Ella and a year or so later he’d scarpered.”

  Johnnie is glowing with excitement. “I suppose he may have returned, snatched Ella and taken her back to America. It would explain why no trace of her has ever been found. If Barry had a row with Beverly about taking Ella, he might have wanted revenge when she said no. Perhaps he wanted to take them all to America, and she didn’t want to go.”

  “Or you can explain it by saying that Beverly murdered her daughter and be done with it,” Catherine says tartly. “Look, customers are on their way. Rubes love, if you want to do this then you go right ahead, but a lot of people will feel the same as me. Beverly should have swung for murder.”

  Chapter Nine

  Johnnie follows me into the back room for a cigarette break at twelve, and continues the conversation about Beverly as though we had never been interrupted. “How are you going to investigate this one, Ruby?”

  I shrug. “Well, everyone keeps telling me it’s going to be hard, and I do get that. Kenny and James got me a list of names and a few addresses of people who were around at the time of Ella’s disappearance, so I’ll start with those. There’s also a child who testified to seeing Beverly take Ella inside that afternoon, who now admits she lied. She must be a good person to start with.”

  My employer raises sceptical eyebrows. “Yes, suddenly after ten years she decides to come forward. How convenient. And if Beverly had gone to the gallows? A bit late to be admitting something like that. You know this whole set-up is slightly odd. Devastating as any missing child case is, of course. But odd, too. You watch out on this, Ruby Baker.”

  I stub my cigarette out and turn to wash up the dirty bowl of mugs ready for the afternoon rush. “I thought it was strange too, but then I wondered if this child, Laura, who was a key witness, had been bribed or threatened into lying. If she had been then it all still points towards someone setting Beverly up for the murder. The fact that she's come forward now suggests that maybe the person doing the threatening might not be around any longer. Perhaps Barry Green or whoever died?”

  Johnnie looks doubtful. “You know, much as I like the idea, it's going to be very hard to convince everyone that Beverly was set up. It sounds a bit like a Hollywood film. That would be a lot of people to bribe and keep under control for all these years. White Oak might look like a big, sprawling estate, but the residents look out for each other like a big family. You hurt one of them, you hurt all of them. Of course I wasn’t here ten years ago, but I imagine it was much the same then. Let me have a look at your list, though, and I’ll set my Brighton spy system onto the names.” He laughs suddenly. “This is so much fun, Ruby, and do you know what will happen when the police find out we are investigating, too?”

  I sigh. “Yes, I do. They’ll come and give me another telling off.”

  Johnnie smiles happily. “And we will ignore them as usual, because most of the time the police are a useless bunch of lazy bastards.”

  I rinse bubbles off the last mug and stack it neatly in the wooden drying rack, biting my tongue. Johnnie is a poofter, which doesn’t bother me at all — at least not since the initial shock of finding out — but it is of course very illegal. Earlier this year he was having an affair with the local policeman, Inspector Hammond, but that ended badly, so I can see why he has problems with our police force. I think of Kenny’s wink earlier when he mentioned Johnnie and the police, and wonder how many of Johnnie’s friends suspect. As long as nobody can prove anything he’s safe, but he does like to take risks . . .

  In between clients, I manage to snatch a few moments to look at the list Kenny gave me yesterday. Running my eyes over the names, I am delighted to spot two women who are regular customers. I hope I’m less likely to get the door slammed in my face if they actually know me first. Annie Simmons must be the neighbour who took Beverly in when she came out of prison. Only one man on the list of fifteen names. Interesting. I shove the paper back in my pocket as Mary joins me on the reception desk. The spark is back in her eyes.

  “Sorry, Ruby. I know it isn’t your fault, and I know I just need to keep going and I’ll get better as a mum.”

  Relieved, I give her a quick hug, not caring that the salon is full of inquisitive clients. I whisper quickly in her ear, “You don’t have anything to feel sorry about. You’re doing your best, you’re a great mum and we will get through it together. Shall I come with you to pick up Summer today? If you’re still interested, a couple of the names on this list have addresses near to Angela’s house. She might even know them.”

  Mary’s pale face brightens a little. “Yes, I’d like to help. We could take Summer with us. I . . . I don’t want to go straight home.”

  “Then we’ll stop at the Co-op on the way back and get some sausages. I’ll make dinner tonight,” I suggest. “Onion gravy if you want, too!”

  “Come on, stop gossiping, you two, Clara needs a shampoo, and Ruby, you can give Miss Bexhim a trim while I watch.” Eve puts a towel in Mary’s hands and herds me off to the chair nearest the window. A tall, willowy woman dressed in a blue spotted dress puts down her magazine.

  “Miss Bexhim, this is Ruby, one of our trainees. She is going to give you a trim if that is still alright?”

  The woman nods sharply, silver spectacles trembling on the end of her pointed nose. “As long as she does a good job and I am entitled to the discount you offered.”

  “Yes, of course.” Eve hands me the comb a
nd scissors and I shove my numerous problems to the back of my mind.

  Just before five the telephone rings and Mary passes the receiver to me, whispering that it is the police.

  “Hallo?”

  “Hallo Ruby, this is WPC Stanton.”

  “Yes?” My heart is thumping hard, hoping for good news about the Beach Girl.

  “Ruby, I just wanted to you to know that despite our best efforts we haven’t been able to discover anything about the girl you rescued. Believe me, we have tried! She will be going to Alice’s Farm tomorrow.”

  “That’s an orphanage?”

  “It’s up on Dyke Hill Road, and yes, some children there have been orphaned. If the girl would speak, we could probably solve her case within hours, but she won’t. The staff at Alice’s will look after her and let us know if she does start to talk.”

  “Oh.” A thud of disappointment. “Thanks for letting me know. Just one other thing — can I visit her at Alice’s? I feel a bit . . . responsible for her, I suppose. I know the others do too.”

  Silence for a heartbeat, but then her crisp tones come back over the telephone line, “I don’t see why not. I would perhaps leave it a week or so until she has settled in, but I’ll let the manager know. Miss Smith, she’s called. Goodbye, Ruby.”

  “Bad news, darling?” Johnnie says, as I head for the back room, and another round of tea and biscuits.

  I explain, and he says that Alice’s Farm isn’t a bad place, and what else could the police do?

  I shrug, because actually I’m not sure. But I do know that I’m going to get the bus up to Alice’s Farm and visit the girl again as soon as I’m allowed to. Not because I think I can get her to talk, but just because I feel like I owe her something. To keep in touch, at least.

  After I’ve dished out the tea to various customers, I telephone around to let the others know what has happened. Victoria and Pearl are working, but James agrees we should go and visit Alice’s Farm, although I know he’s already thinking of the next story if she does start talking.