by Valerie Laws
‘Or there’s crisps.’
She was tempted, but though hungry, shied away from the insidious temptation of crisps, their burst of flavour, swiftly vanishing, and the urge to have another, and another … she’d have to get some proper supplies in at Mickey’s.
‘I’ll leave it for now, thanks.’
‘Or nuts.’ Gil was pulling out all the stops to make up for his lack of veggie menu.
Erica recoiled. Six hundred calories in one hundred grams! Her empty stomach protested, but she stamped it down. The door opened and shut, as the guy with the pie left. Gil bent forward.
‘That was Paul Reed.’
‘Who?’
‘Paul Reed. Used to go out with Molly Westfield, right up to when she ran off to London. They’d just split up.’
Erica looked back to where the man’s greasy plate lay beside an empty beer glass. Had he moved from the bar because she’d mentioned Molly’s name?
‘Good-looking lad he was then.’
And now he was a sad sack of a bloke. Erica felt that dislocation as she made the connection between young Molly, forever teenaged, and the people she’d known, now middle-aged.
‘He doesn’t look too happy,’ she said tactfully.
‘He’s not still pining after young Molly, if that’s what you’re thinking. He up and married her best friend, soon enough.’
‘Aye,’ put in Mickey. ‘That’s why he doesn’t look happy! Talk about letting herself go! More like chasing herself away with a shotgun.’
‘Well,’ put in Gil diplomatically. Paul was a better customer than Mickey after all. ‘It’s not been easy for Julie. She misses her friend.’
‘Misses Molly!’ Mickey bawled, undaunted. ‘They used to fight like cat and dog! I remember once, in the yard after school, they were at it like maniacs, scratching, slapping, kicking, til the teacher stopped it. Julie always had her eye on Paul. Jealous as hell.’
‘Yes, well, be that as it may,’ rumbled Gil, still struggling to keep the conversation cool. ‘Ready for another?’
‘What do you have that’s low calorie and non-alcoholic?’ Erica asked, waving towards Mickey’s glass to indicate a refill.
‘Water?’
‘Bread and water. What is this, the Alcatraz Arms?’ Erica chose another slimline tonic without the gin. Her hunger still burned. But she was used to that. The only danger was, when she got some food she’d lose control and eat and eat and eat … she crunched an ice cube. Paul and Julie Reed had known and loved Molly, and maybe hated her too. Neither of them quite at her level. A situation to breed resentment as well as admiration. They’d be worth talking to. And if word got round she was staying with Mickey at Stony Point hostel, maybe someone else who’d known her would come forward with information.
Going back over the footbridge, Mickey was slightly unsteady, and Erica felt a momentary qualm as he leaned over the guard rail to gaze down into the shadowy Cut. But it was safely at chest height.
‘Rat!’ he announced triumphantly. ‘This big!’ He held his hands out to improbable dimensions.
‘Funny how nobody ever admits seeing a small rat,’ remarked Erica, glancing over but seeing nothing moving.
Stony Point hostel glimmered white, and moths floated in the salty air like flakes of light. Various ‘inmates’ sat on the walls with cans of drink, cigarette ends punctuating the dusk. Erica had a strange feeling of being her old self, it was almost as if Lucy might walk round the corner, vivid with life and enthusiasm. Fiona was on duty, watching TV through a veil of dust, biting into a snickers bar. The smell of chocolate, peanuts and toffee, three musketeers of obesity, swirled up Erica’s nostrils and straight to the primitive centres of her brain like an Egyptian mummifier’s hook. She swallowed the rush of saliva, and went into the kitchen to find something she could eat. Erica cooked some pasta not too far past its sell-by date, dressing it with tomatoes and black olives which she found in the fridge, probably bought by Fiona. The cheese was vegetarian, so she grated some on top. Mickey swallowed a plateful with his eyes on the screen. He loved to be fed. No attempt was made to lock up properly.
Erica went to bed early, strangely tired out, in the little assistant’s cubby hole, partitioned off one of the bedrooms, and sparsely furnished with an old metal framed single bed. A tiny window looked out to sea, and Erica went to sleep to the sound of the waves. Just as she dropped off, she had a vision of Molly and Lucy, two mermaids rolling with the waves, their hair spread over the water like bladderwrack. The sea kept all sorts of secrets.
13
Sunday 22nd June
Stony Point
Waking to the smell of frying bacon, Erica went downstairs to grab a couple of pre-packed Weetabix, and helped to serve breakfast to the hikers and cyclists who shovelled down the cholesterol like they hated their hearts.
Fiona hoisted the massive black frying pan which smoked with hot fat. Several suicidal moths had been fished out before the cooking began, and the dust from their wings still floated on the surface in little smudges.‘You don’t need to do this, honestly,’ she told Erica.
‘It’s a lot of work for you, I know, I’ve been there, done that, got the oily apron,’ said Erica, filling the monster kettle for tea top-ups.
‘Well I do get an evening off a week, so it’s not too bad. Wednesday, my favourite … ow!’ A splash of hot fat stung her hand.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Erica slid the kettle onto the aga where it bobbled as the trapped water drops vapourised under its weight. ‘I have a horrible feeling I’ll end up doing Wednesday’s dinners.’
‘No way. Mickey’s closed on Wednesday.’
‘At this time of year! He usually stops his closed night for the summer.’
‘He’s getting on, Erica. Unless he’s got a special group in he likes, regulars, whatever, he shuts on Wednesday, and the inmates have to bog off elsewhere. He shuts himself up with the telly and a giant bag of M&M’s and a bottle of vodka if he can afford one. Talk about a sad case!’
‘Oh, well. At least I won’t be lumbered, if I’m here that night.’
But for now, Erica had another task in view. She’d decided to visit Liz Seaton at Hex Tower. It was likely to be an uncomfortable visit, but it had to be made. She was feeling twitchy because she usually swam at this time. The pool was too far from Stony Point, and by the time she got home, it would be too late to swim. The pool would be full of beach balls and beer bellies.
Erica followed the narrow road along the edge of the steep slope leading down to the harbour. Hex Tower got its Gothic name, with its witchy associations, from geometry. Part of it was a hexagonal tower, with a commanding view of the harbour, out to sea and up the river; built of sandstone blocks, and with a square, flat roofed building attached, it made an exotic addition to the little village.
‘Your parents must be rolling,’ Erica had said to Lucy.
‘It’s like a little castle!’
‘It’s what she wanted. And Dad was happy to play along.
It was originally the customs man’s house. So he could look out for smugglers coming up the harbour with boat loads of contraband. There used to be a secret passage from the harbour, into our cellars. And a secret hidey hole for brandy and stuff. Most of the excise blokes then took a cut of the profits in exchange for letting the stuff through. There was one of the hiding places I used to play with, just a kind of trunk built into the plaster. I spent hours looking for the tunnel when I was a kid, but never found anything. Mum didn’t like me going down the cellar. I made up all sorts of stories about it. In the end, I used the hidey hole for storing all Molly’s things I got from Aunty Peggy. Two mysteries together.’
‘Talk about Enid Blyton!’ Erica had been scornful. If there had been a tunnel, Erica thought now, it had probably been filled in years ago. It would have made the house damp for one thing. Every high tide the place would be awash.
Erica walked up the few steps to the glossy black front door. Between Liz, the consultant, and Seymour, the arch
itect, with only one daughter, the money had rolled in. True, a lot of it must go on keeping Liz and Peg’s mother Lily in a luxury care home. But the local boy and local girl made good had lavished money on Hex Tower. Bay trees in square tubs flanked the door. A state of the art burglar alarm system warned off any poor village lad tempted by the lavish gold-framed paintings, expensive furniture and electronic equipment which could be glimpsed through the windows.
Erica rang the bell, hoping that Liz would be out. But Liz opened the door, wearing well-cut black jeans, and a simple white shirt with a discreet designer label. Her shoes were frivolous high-heeled slips of apricot leather which must have cost hundreds. In them, her feet showed some of the age her face still hid. Perhaps years of sensible work shoes had led to this brave flourish. Her fair hair was tied back loosely. Erica had done some calculations after their last meeting, and realised with a shock that Liz must by now be sixty. She certainly looked good on it. But the signs of strain round her eyes were more obvious now. Standing below, Erica had to look up at Liz. She felt once more like a girl in trouble with the head.
‘Erica.’ Cold, an accusation.
‘Hello, Liz!’ She took a step up, invading Liz’s personal space, making it clear she wanted to come in. Liz stepped back. Something about her controlled demeanour made it feel less like a victory, more like she was entering the enemy’s den.
‘Come in,’ Liz said. She sounded tired. She turned and led the way through the hall with its tiled floor, the stone exposed like a baronial hall. Despite the underfloor heating, Erica felt a chill, a finger of claustrophobia stroke her spine. The fortress kept danger out, but could be a prison. Lucy, the beloved princess, had had the right setting; but how like Rapunzel had she been? Erica followed Liz into the sitting room, in the tower itself, with windows on four sides.
She hadn’t mentioned the email to Mickey, feeling that Lucy’s parents should hear first. The same feeling of doing what was fitting had prevented her visiting Liz first with a puffin’s head announcing its existence from her bag in the summer heat. The stench of death was not appropriate in the circumstances.
Not that it intruded here. There was a scent of beeswax and lavender. Light flowed in like honey and filled the room to its high ceiling. It stroked the gold frames of the original paintings with a loving finger, and warmed the hexagonal terracotta tiles, shiny with polish, which covered the floor under the rich old rugs. Hard to imagine the whisky-riddled Seymour reeling about in here. Perhaps he was one of those careful slow-moving drunks.
As if Erica had spoken aloud, Liz said, ‘Seymour’s having a lie-in. I tell him, you can take it easy now you’re retired. All this business with Lucy is wearing him out.’
She’s a doctor, Erica thought; she must know he’s an alcoholic, surely?
‘Have the police told you…’
‘About the email? Yes, that young Inspector came round personally.’
‘What did you think of it?’ Erica hazarded.
‘It’s not my speciality, of course, but I’d say it backs up my theory that Lucy is suffering from reaction to hard studying and exams. I just wish she’d come home, or tell us where she is. I know really good specialists who could help her. Time is of the essence here. She’s due to move on to the next stage of her training in a couple of weeks, and I’ve pulled strings to get her a really good placement … sit down Erica, I’ll get us some coffee.’
Erica was bristling with annoyance to hear this controlled, controlling speech, but then Liz suddenly sat down on the coffee table, as if she’d been hit behind the knees with a baseball bat.
‘I wish she’d come home, it’s killing me and her father, she’s out there somewhere, who knows where…’
Gingerly, Erica crossed to her and put a hand on Liz’s lean, strong shoulder. It felt like stone under her fingers.
‘Why are we not allowed to see Toby? Why has she turned against us?’
Liz’s tone was more plaintive than hostile. Erica knew there was a bottle of Rescue Remedy in her bag, but knowing Liz’s attitude to alternative medicine, she didn’t produce it. She answered Liz’s questions with one of her own. ‘Why do you think she mentioned Molly to Steve?’
‘I don’t know.’ Liz spoke dully, her skilful, flexible hands hanging down between her knees. Erica saw her begin to assert her will, in much the same way as she did herself. Maybe she and Liz weren’t so different after all. Liz straightened up and raised her chin. Close up, her skin looked dry, and blue rings under her eyes had been camouflaged with make- up. ‘Probably reverting to an adolescent fantasy. She often used to think of Molly, as you probably know. Though we haven’t talked much of her for some years.’
She stood up, and walked with dignity out to the kitchen. Erica followed. The pastel aga here was a different species to that in Mickey’s kitchen.
‘It occurred to me Lucy might have found out something about what happened to Molly, and is afraid to come home.’ Erica stated her idea baldly, though she didn’t add, or has come to some harm. Liz swung round sharply.
‘She can’t have! There’s nothing to find out! Molly left and ran away to London. Everyone knows that.’
‘I thought I’d like to look into Molly’s disappearance anyway, just in case.’
Liz’s eyes darkened. Her whole body tensed. ‘You thought? Have you thought about my poor sister Peggy? It’s bad enough for her, Lucy going missing, she’s devoted to my daughter, and it brings it all back, that awful time Molly went. It was hell, for all of us. I was pregnant with Lucy, we should all have been delighted, but I couldn’t even tell Peggy until my size gave me no choice. It seemed too cruel, to be having a baby when Peggy’s daughter had gone. We don’t need someone digging around, making things worse!’
‘I have thought about that, but my first loyalty has to be to Lucy…’
‘Really? You haven’t seen her for five years! You haven’t seen her since she was a stage-struck teenager! She’s a doctor now, and a mother! Some loyalty, as soon as Lucy decided to stick with medicine, you dropped her!’
‘You wanted me to! You tried to keep us apart!’ Erica felt choked; even now she couldn’t mention that horrible phonecall directly.
‘We didn’t want Lucy made to feel conflicted about her choice, after she’d made it! You could have contacted her any time after she left home, but you didn’t did you? The arrogance, walking in here, interfering, just because of one email about a temporarily disturbed student.’
Liz’s eyes burned into Erica’s. Erica felt her heart pounding, a feeling of claustrophobia mingled with shame and anger to leave her as if paralysed. Liz was right. She should just walk out of there, after a grovelling apology.
‘Sooner murder an infant in its cradle…’ the words of the mail rang in her head. This was horrible, and she hated doing it, but her very disloyalty to Lucy over the last five years made it all the more important she didn’t fail her now. And it was all to Liz’s advantage, if she kept going. If it brought Lucy home sooner. Or found her body.
‘Please don’t speak of loyalty to me,’ Liz went on, her chest rising and falling almost painfully. ‘I’m her mother. I held her hand while she gave birth. I listened to her for hours on the phone when the course was hard going. I’m here for her when she’s ready. So is her father. Lucy doesn’t need you. And we certainly don’t want Molly dragged into this. She’s chosen to stay away.’
Erica found herself shaking. ‘Lucy said things changed because of Molly…’
‘She mentioned you too! It’s just as likely you had something to do with her disappearance! And I’m not convinced you hadn’t! Preying on her, poisoning her mind, trying to get your claws into my daughter again … got a boyfriend, have you, Ricci? Sure of your sexuality now, are you? Or still ambivalent? That poem…’
‘Lucy wrote poems to me, too! We were kids, emotional, drama queens, maybe. Maybe living with a control freak like…’ Erica stopped herself, horrified to hear the words coming out of her mouth. Control, con
trol. Liz was distressed, in pain, of course she lashed out. Lucy could be dead, she was talking to Lucy’s possibly bereaved mother.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that –’
‘It’s your fault! Telling the police a load of rubbish, putting ideas about Molly into their heads, oh, Inspector Bennett told us your ‘theories!’ And I hear you’ve been talking to Steve, no doubt telling him he’s right to keep our grandson away from us!
‘We are the victims here! Lucy’s been missing a week, and all you can do is make things worse! Hinting things, the whole village is gossiping as it is!’
Bang on target. What could she say, but ‘Sorry, but I don’t know what’s happened to Lucy, honestly. I’d better go.’
She turned and stumbled out of the house, heading back to Stony Point hostel, less sure of herself than she had ever been.
Alone, Liz breathed deeply. If Erica Bruce didn’t know where Lucy was, and she wasn’t convinced of that by any means, what would happen if she carried on digging into Molly’s case? She’d hoped Erica would ask around for Lucy; she’d not known about Molly being mentioned until it was too late. She would have to protect her loved ones. She turned to go out of the room and started back.
‘What were you talking about?’ Peg stood there, smiling.
‘I didn’t hear you come in!’
‘Only God knows our going out and our coming in,’ Peg said. She walked past Liz, for once more poised than her sister, and left the room.
Molly … that Erica Bruce, who called Lucy, Lucifer, was sneaking around Molly … and telling Steve to keep Toby away …
14
Stonehead
‘Did you think it would be easy, you fucking idiot?’ Erica asked herself, walking back to Stony Point.
Ahead, up the street that curved along to her right, a door opened and Stacey clumsily backed out, dragging a cheap buggy after her, in which presumably Noosh reclined. Stacey’s hair was dragged back into a pony tail, and her feet were crammed into kitten heels, which swayed precariously as she stomped down the road at surprising speed.
