by Daisy White
They are back, though, and Beverly is back. This thought pierces my tired brain, and sets my heart thundering in my chest. Another coincidence?
With slight trepidation I let myself into our bedsit and creep up the stairs. Summer is fast asleep but Mary is sitting up in bed, hugging her knees. She turns a tear-stained face towards me and I sit down on the bed.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s OK, it isn’t Summer. I just . . . I cut my arm on the tin of peas, and there was blood everywhere. I couldn’t stop crying. I don’t know why because it doesn’t hurt that much . . .” She trails off, and the blankness is sealing across her face again.
Desperate not to lose her, I pull her into a hug, rubbing her cold arms. “It’s OK, I’m back now. And Summer went to sleep after her feed alright? Can I see your arm?”
Like a child she nods wordlessly and holds out her right forearm. It’s a deep cut, perhaps two inches long, and still oozing sluggish dark blood. The moonlight flooding across our bedsit makes it almost bright enough to see clearly.
“I think it needs a bandage,” I tell her, “to stop the bleeding, but also because you’ll get blood all over your clean sheets if you go to sleep with it like that.”
“I couldn’t find a bandage . . .” Mary sniffs, as she pushes back her hair, “It was only this arm. I tried to save the tin from going on the floor, but it made such a mess. It took ages to clear up.”
“Mary, it’s fine. It was just an accident, and it really doesn’t matter.” I can’t understand why she's so upset, but at least she's still talking to me, and hasn’t retreated into that blank-faced stranger. I give her another hug, tuck her into bed like a child, and rummage under my bed for an old shirt. Two sharp twists and I have a couple of rough bandages.
“Here, I’ll put this on, and if we need to we can always go and see Pearl tomorrow and get her to look at it. She’s on night shift so she’ll be done by nine. Oh, and they have exams so they sent their love but they won’t be out until after the sixteenth, Victoria said. Don’t cry, Mary, you’re doing fine, and look how well Summer is sleeping. Do you want a cup of hot milk or something?”
“No thanks.”
Finally, Mary drifts off to sleep, and I undress quietly and fall into my own bed. What on earth was all that about?
* * *
Friday is always busy at the salon, and all the chat is still about Susie Stocker and the poor men who drowned on Sunday. Lots of our clients have relations in the fishing trade so there is a bit of discussion about ‘idiots from London with no respect for sea’ but regarding Susie the general consensus seems to be she knew she was going to die soon and decided on sooner rather than later. It seems to be fairly well known that John Stocker has also been unwell for a couple of years, so it won’t be long before he joins his wife in the graveyard on the hill. Catherine insists that ‘all that champagne and high living catches up with you’, but I reckon old age does much the same thing.
Anyway, the Stockers definitely didn’t have any children, so Beach Girl remains unclaimed. I came down to the salon early so I had time to do a bit of telephoning, which I thought would yield some results for the Collins case, but I’m just left feeling frustrated. WPC Stanton said she had been up and asked the child if she had seen Susie Stocker walk into the sea, but the girl just turned her head away. While I had her on the telephone I also put forward my theory about Hector and Eva, and she said she’d pass it on to Inspector Hammond, because she didn’t have details of the original case.
When I tried to ask what happened to the other girl from the kidnapping incident, she clammed right up and said she had to go.
Mary insisted she was fine this morning, and although she is very pale, her arm seems to be healing neatly, and the bleeding has stopped. She took Summer off to Angela’s for the day and returned to work with a clean bandage under her uniform. “Look, I don’t need to go to hospital or anything. It doesn’t need stitches.”
“Maybe you should still go up there and just get it checked. Get the bus on your lunch break. Johnnie won’t mind if you’re late back and I can cover your clients.”
She shakes her head, mouth set in a stubborn line. “I’m alright now.”
Mrs Carpenter is minding the reception desk today, studying us all with shrewd, dark eyes. Although her face is a mass of wrinkles and her eyes are half hooded by the papery, slack skin, she is one of the smartest women I have met in Brighton.
I make her a cup of tea at eleven and take it over to the reception desk.
“Thank you, Ruby.” She makes a careful pencil mark in the appointment book and then looks at me enquiringly. “How’s the Beverly Collins investigation going?”
The general buzz of chatter covers our conversation, but even so I glance around before I answer. Johnnie, as usual, hasn’t missed anything, but he winks at me and turns back to his red-headed client. Still annoyed with the police, I lean an elbow on the desk next to the telephone. “Do you remember a couple who ran an ice cream van in Brighton in the '50s?”
Mrs Carpenter's dark eyes narrow further, and her lips purse as she thinks. “Mavis and Jack Harper. They went off and started a magic show, didn’t they? I saw in the paper that they were back at the Hippodrome. Why do you ask?”
I take a deep breath, and say slowly and softly, “Because I think they might have been the ones who took Ella Collins.”
Mrs Carpenter watches my face for a while, clearly processing the information. “Were they on White Oak when she went missing?”
“Yes. As far as I can make out they were the last adults to see her, so they must have been questioned by the police.”
“Have you tried to talk to them?”
I explain about the interview last night, and their reaction to Alice’s questions.
“I see. Well, if I were you, I would . . .” The telephone rings, making us both jump, and the next moment I have forgotten all about Hector and Eva.
“Ruby! It’s Beverly. The police want me to come down to the station and answer some questions. They said I’m not under arrest or anything, but I can’t go without you and Annie. I just can’t go and sit in there again, knowing that last time I didn’t come out again.”
Beverly's words are pouring out, edged with fear, and it’s a while before I can make myself heard. “Of course I’ll go with you, but I can’t until after work. What about your aunt?”
“She’s in Eastbourne for the day at a WI event. She’s not back until about eight tonight. What do you think they want, Ruby? I haven’t done anything wrong! They can’t arrest me for looking for my daughter. I won’t let them!”
For the second time in twelve hours I find myself saying that it will all be OK even though I’m seriously wondering whether it will be. I arrange to meet Beverly down on the promenade opposite Brenda’s after work, and tell her we’ll get the bus to the police station. She’s going to keep trying to get hold of Annie to come too. Oh God, what am I going to do about Mary after work? I promised I’d go with her to get Summer.
When I come off the telephone, replacing the receiver with a slightly sweaty hand, Mrs Carpenter is waiting. “The police want to see her?”
“Yes. She’s really worried . . . What? Why are you looking like that?”
“Ruby, can you do me to two teas with milk and sugar, please, love?” Catherine leads another client from the dryer to a chair.
“And one black tea over here as well if you’re going out the back,” Johnnie calls, smugly brushing out a sheet of shimmering blonde hair while his client showers him with praises.
Mrs Carpenter nods towards the back room, and we both start making tea and clattering cups. “Are you alright, Ruby?” she says in her rather harsh, grating voice.
“Yes. Beverly’s terrified. They can’t arrest her for looking for her daughter, can they?” I collect mugs and spoons, laying everything neatly onto the tray without thinking.
“Ruby, I know you girls haven’t had much sleep lately, but think about
it. Last weekend a girl appeared on the beach. Never mind all that kidnapping business. A girl of, say, fourteen appeared on the beach and now the police can’t find her parents or anyone who knows her.”
I can’t even begin to say it, or think it for that matter, but my hands are shaking and I spill milk all over the countertop.
She snorts. “You’re not that daft. Has it really not occurred to you? It’s obvious to me that the police think this girl is Ella Collins. That's why Beverly has been asked to go in. To identify her daughter.”
Chapter Nineteen
“But that would be—” I stop, concentrating hard on pouring boiling water, “How is that even possible? And why now?”
Mrs Carpenter nods and says tartly, “You’re the one with the investigation bureau — you tell me. Not saying for definite I’m right, but I usually am.”
With the lack of sleep and the strangeness of this investigation it’s a miracle I manage to cut anyone’s hair in a straight line, but I do. I smile and chat and sweep up mountains of hair and dust. I make Mary tea and toast and sit with her on our lunch break, explaining about Beverly. Her eyes are desperate and her mouth goes weak when I tell her I need to go down to the police station.
“I know I promised I’d come and get Summer with you, but I’ve got an idea . . . Do you mind if I ring Kenny?”
Mary shrugs, but I can see that flicker of desperation — even fear — cross her face at the prospect of being alone.
Kenny, delighted at the possibility of another potential story, is happy to come and sit with Mary and the baby while I accompany Beverly to the police station. He doesn’t ask why Mary suddenly needs an extra pair of hands, and even says he’ll bring dinner, as long as she is happy with chicken and chips with a couple of bottles of Coca Cola.
“Thanks, Kenny, you're the best!” I tell him. “Oh, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about as well, so if you’ve got a bit of time when I get back . . .”
“Sounds intriguing, and yes, for you, Rubes, I’ve got all night.”
“Thanks, Kenny.”
“I know, I know, and because I'm so wonderful, one day you’ll realise we should go on a date,” he tells me, laughing.
“See you later.” I ring off, dive over to the basins for two shampooing sessions, and then grab the telephone again — but nobody answers at the nurses’ accommodation. I’ll have to tell Pearl and Victoria my new theories later. I don’t mention Mrs Carpenter’s idea to anyone, but God, it would be so perfect if it was true. I bet Beverly, when she’s had time to get over her panic that she’s going to be arrested, has thought of it too.
* * *
I jump off the bus and run into the police station with two minutes to spare. The heavy blue wooden doors spit me straight out into the grubby grey waiting area. Beverly is huddled on a chair with Annie beside her, and the desk sergeant is preoccupied with shouting at some drunks.
“Oh Ruby, thank you for coming!” Beverly leaps up and takes both my hands. “They still haven’t told us what this is all about . . .” But there is a desperate flare of hope in her eyes, and I know she has guessed.
Annie — vast, rouged and defiant — gives me a hug as WPC Stanton appears from a side door, “Miss Collins? Can you come this way, please — oh.” She flicks a quick glance at Annie and me, standing like soldiers on sentry duty either side of Beverly.
“I need them with me,” Beverly tells her. “Whatever you have to say, I need them with me.”
The WPC hesitates, but allows us all to file through into a small room with grey walls, and another grubby yellow lino floor. “Just have a seat and wait here. The inspector will be with you soon.”
She shuts the door behind her softly, and we wait, listening to the sharp tap-tap of her heels as she marches down the corridor. Beverly sits down heavily onto one of the chairs, twisting her fingers and picking at her thumbnail. The edges of her nails are already red and raw. Her eyes are pink from crying, and she shivers in the stuffy warmth of the room.
I breathe in the smell of sweat, urine and disinfectant and wish the windows didn’t have rusty bars on them to prevent fresh air from getting in. Perching on the edge of the table I try to push down a rising wave of panic. Mainly panic that I may have done something to get Beverly into trouble.
Inspector Hammond enters the room with another policeman, and we all jump guiltily. Beverly is so pale now, I’m worried she might faint, so I jump off the table and stand next to her. Annie sits on the other chair, picking up her friend’s hand and rubbing it with both of hers as you would to warm a child.
Both policemen are polite and I’d say Hammond is nervous. His usual jolly, slightly shambolic manner intensifies as he drops his notebook then picks it off the floor, revealing damp patches across his shoulders and under the arms of his navy shirt.
“Thank you for coming in, Miss Collins,” he says formally, “I’m sure you remember Detective Sergeant Appleton. He was heavily involved in your case, and of course with recent developments I felt it was important for him to be present.” His muscular blonde companion smiles at us.
Beverly licks her lips nervously, her toffee-brown stare directed at the inspector. She doesn’t even acknowledge the other man. Interesting. This would be the policeman she called ‘a right bastard,’ if I remember rightly. DS Appleton is clearly slightly uneasy, as well you would be when confronted by someone who knows you screwed up their entire life. His cheeks are ruddy from the wind or the sun, and his pale blue eyes flicker from one of us to the other even as his smile shows very white teeth.
Annie scowls at both men, but directs her words to Appleton. “Yes, I heard you were over in Hastings making everyone miserable. You arrested any more innocent women recently?”
Obviously, DS Appleton remembers Annie, and he clears his throat noisily, interlacing his large fingers and putting them carefully onto the table between us. “Inspector Hammond felt — and I am very grateful to him, that I should be present. He telephoned me yesterday with some . . . some rather interesting theories relating to your case, Beverly. I understand Miss Baker has been assisting you.”
She says nothing, and I squeeze her shoulder gently. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. The detective sergeant meets my eyes, holding my gaze for just a bit too long and still smiling warmly. The intimacy in his expression is slightly startling for someone I’ve never met before — it’s like we’re sharing a secret. Despite the fact that physically they are nothing alike, I’m reminded of James.
The man continues, “As you know, there was considerable evidence against you, Miss Collins, and several witnesses . . .”
Inspector Hammond looks up quickly as someone knocks on the door, and makes a quick note on the file in front of him. “Five minutes, please, WPC Stanton.”
“What is going on?” Annie demands. “We know all this. Don’t upset Bev any more with your stupid justifications. We heard it all at the time, and I told you at the time that you were wrong. Say what you need to so we can all go home.”
Inspector Hammond opens the file on the table and takes out a photograph. “We do accept that we were wrong, and I want to offer you our apologies. Miss Collins, would you say this photograph was an accurate representation of your daughter as you last saw her?”
It’s a reproduction of the picture Annie showed us, and shows the little girl beaming at the camera, dark blue eyes narrowed against the sun, brown hair lifted in the breeze. On one little dimpled cheek is a scar so similar to Beverly’s own that with the resemblance she already bears to her mother, the child could be her in miniature.
“Yes. Yes, you know it is . . .” Beverly starts to cry, horrible rasping tears of loss and regret that make her whole body shake.
“Next question,” I say, slipping my arm around her shoulders.
“You will be aware that we were recently called to an incident on Brighton beach involving two girls. One of the girls has been reunited with her parents, but the other . . . Miss Collins, w
e have reason to believe she may be your daughter.”
Beverly puts her face in her hands and sobs, but I’m watching DS Appleton. His serene, open expression never slips, but you can see the tension in the whitening knuckles of his neatly clasped hands. He catches my eye, smiles again and shrugs ruefully as if to say, ‘I know you’re thinking I screwed up.’ But he says nothing, deferring to his inspector.
“Why ‘reason to believe’? Can’t she tell you who she is?” Annie snaps, almost in tears herself, fumbling for a handkerchief in her cardigan pocket.
Inspector Hammond rubs his hand over his hair and across his face. “She claims her name is Emily, and she hasn’t given us any further details.” He darts a glance at me. “She has refused to answer any other questions, apart from informing us she was on a day trip from London with her father. She claims they were separated in the crowds, and that the girl she was leading away by the hand asked her to take her to the ice cream shop.”
At a nod from Hammond, DS Appleton continues the conversation. “In view of recent events, your case has certainly been — how shall I put it? — on all our minds, and the charming WPC Stanton noticed that ‘Emily’ bears a striking resemblance to your daughter, right down to the scar on her cheek. We were able to confirm that her blood type also matches that of your daughter. Although she has refused to confirm her age, it is entirely possible that she is fourteen years old.”
There is another knock on the door and this time the inspector calls, “Yes, come in.”
WPC Stanton leads a girl into the room. Ella. I’m struck at once by the similarities between this girl and the child I rescued from the stormy beach. Not so much physically — the face shape is different, and Beach Girl had grey eyes. It’s the wary pose, the expression that verges on blankness, and the slightly vacant stare.
“Ella,” Beverly whispers, half rising, her hands resting on the table between us. She stumbles as she turns towards her daughter, and her face is milk white. Even her lips look bloodless, and the tears roll slowly down her cheeks. “Oh, Ella.”
