by Chris Curran
‘What did Nigel think happened?’
‘Like the inquest said, it was an accident. She fell off the pier. Probably drunk. Her mum tries to make out the girl was some kind of angel, but she led our Nigel a merry dance. Dumped him, really upset him.’
‘You don’t think she killed herself then?’
‘Nah. Last time I saw her, couple of days before, she was dressed up to the nines and happy as Larry.’
She took a chance. ‘I heard she went to the show on the pier. Did she go with Nigel?’
A harsh laugh. ‘She did and he paid for the tickets, as well. Then she made him go round to the stage door. He said he felt like a right idiot.’
Joycie’s heart gave a huge thump. ‘Who did she want to see?’
‘Some kind of singer, I think. Nigel said he looked like a proper poofter, but she was drooling over him. Now, do you mind, I’ve got to be somewhere.’
He pulled the door closed and pushed between Joycie and Andy. She shook her head at Andy, anxious he shouldn’t make a fuss, and followed the man.
‘Please Mr Godwin, just one more thing. Was the singer Sharon was interested in from the duo – The Bluebirds?’
‘Don’t know what they were called, but there was two of them ’cos Nigel said he sang with a nice-looking girl. So if he wasn’t a poofter he was probably with her and Sharon was wasting her time anyway. But she wouldn’t listen, said she’d read the programme and the girl was his sister.’
***
The journey home seemed to take forever. Andy kept up a non-stop commentary, for which Joycie was grateful. She was able to say the occasional yes and no while she thought about what she’d found out in Hastings, all the time trying to shut her mind to her worries about Marcus.
The main thing was that Sharon Madison had seen the show and gone round to the stage door afterwards. Even if it was Dennis she was interested in, not Joycie’s dad, she could still have caught Sid’s eye. Maybe Sid persuaded Dennis to invite her out with a group from the show or just waylaid the girl and offered to introduce her. And, of course, Dennis could know about it and that could be why they’d scared him off.
She told herself this was what she needed to focus on, but every time she let her guard down her thoughts came back to one thing: Marcus, Marcus, Marcus. What was wrong? And what would happen when she got home?
By the time they pulled into the street she was feeling sick. It was filled with bright sunshine. The white houses gleaming in the quiet emptiness of a lazy Sunday evening. But it was too quiet, too empty, and there was no sign of the Morgan outside the house. Marcus wasn’t home.
She could hear Andy talking: ‘Marky’s out, I see. Must be still hard at it.’ She sensed rather than saw him getting out of the car, grabbing her bag, opening her door. Was somehow able to take the bag, to smile and thank him. He had told her he had a date later that evening so she said, ‘You get going. No point in waiting for Marcus. He could be hours yet.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Of course and thank you again. You’ve been wonderful.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his warm cheek.
He blushed red, hovered awkwardly for a moment, did one of his little salutes and jumped back into the Jag. ‘Ciao then, Joyce, say hi to Marky.’
He tooted his horn as he drove off, and she climbed the steps to the house, pulling her key slowly from her bag. The sound of the Jag’s engine died away and the street fell silent again. Although it was less than two days, she felt as if she’d been away for weeks and almost expected Marcus to have changed the locks.
Inside she called out to him, although she knew there would be no answer. The kitchen door was closed – Fatty must be in there – at least someone would be glad to see her. She ran upstairs.
‘Hello, anyone home?’
Her bedroom was just as she’d left it, the bed roughly made and her dressing gown thrown on top of the satin eiderdown. The door of Marcus’s room was open, but the rumpled bed didn’t tell her anything, because he’d used it the night before she went to Hastings.
She walked slowly down. No sign of a note in the sitting room, but maybe in the kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. Marcus must have taken Fatty with him, wherever he’d gone. Joycie picked up the kettle – she wasn’t thirsty, but it was something to do. As she stood by the sink she saw a movement in the garden. It was Fatty: running up to the kitchen door and scratching at the wood.
When Joycie opened it the dog rushed in leaping and licking, tail wagging furiously. Finally she calmed down, panting and leaning her back against Joycie’s calf. Her food and water bowls were just outside the back door. Marcus had obviously planned on being away for some time. Both bowls were empty, and when Joycie refilled them, putting them in their usual place on the kitchen floor, Fatty went first to the water.
Joycie made her tea and sat at the kitchen table, watching, as Fatty slurped up the water then turned to swallow down the meat. All the while keeping one eye on Joycie. ‘You poor girl. Did that naughty Marcus leave you all alone?’ She felt a sob rise in her throat as she said it, wondering if he’d left them both.
That was when she heard a car; the familiar sound of a Morgan drawing up outside. What to do? It might be best to stay where she was and let him make the first move. But, no, she would act normally. Go to the door, put her arms around him and wait for him to explain.
The top of the Morgan was up despite the warm sunshine, but she could make out two people inside. He wasn’t alone. And when the passenger door opened a pair of slender legs in high heels slid out.
Joycie stepped back from the window, not breathing yet somehow aware of Fatty beside her pressed hard against her leg. The driver’s door opened and for a moment she thought she’d made a mistake. The car wasn’t Marcus’s at all. But then she recognized the driver, although she’d met him only once. It was Marcus’s father. And the woman: an elegant and well-preserved fifty-year-old, was his mother.
Joycie felt herself flush, as if she was an intruder, although Marcus’s parents knew she was his lodger. They stood together for a moment beside the car, looking up at the house.
And the world seemed to jolt, turning fuzzy and out of focus, as Marcus’s mother threw herself into her husband’s arms and began to sob as if her heart was broken.
Chapter Twenty
The windows were dusty and, despite the bright sun, Marcus’s parents seemed to be huddled in a blur of mist. Joycie was reminded of Irene’s funeral service with its haze of incense, but there was no Latin chanting this time. No sound at all. The glass blocked everything. The world outside was utterly silent and Joycie felt as if she had become a pair of staring eyes, watching something terrifying.
When she was able to force her feet and hands to work and to open the front door she flinched and put up her hand to shade her eyes. No longer muted by the dusty window, the light was too bright.
Joycie had met Mrs Blake only once, but this was not the elegant and youthful woman she remembered. Her hair, big strands falling from the knot at the back of her head, looked more grey than blonde and as she came up the steps she clutched the railing, the bones and veins in her hands standing out sharply in the cruel light.
Mr Blake’s silver hair was neatly slicked back, but he needed a shave and he too seemed shrunken. He looked up at Joycie as he followed his wife up the steps and made a shushing sound; whether to stop her from speaking or to comfort his wife, Joycie wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was both.
She couldn’t have spoken anyway. Couldn’t bear to hear them speak. Don’t say it, don’t say it, please don’t. All she could do was step aside and stand leaning against the front door, knowing her legs wouldn’t support her if she tried to move.
Marcus’s mother sat bolt upright on the sofa, staring into the distance through faded-denim eyes. His father stood behind her and gave Joycie a gentle smile. It was no good. This was happening and she had to let herself hear it. She looked back at him with a
tiny nod. He rubbed his wife’s shoulder and coughed, but before he could speak Mrs Blake shook her head and pressed her hand over his.
‘My son, Marcus …’ Her voice quavered. ‘… this house was broken into last night and my son beaten so badly he’s in a coma.’
A coma, a coma. He’s not dead, thank God. She had opened the door before she knew what she was doing. She had to get to him.
But his mother was speaking again. ‘If he does come round he may never be the same.’
Her hand went to her mouth. She had short neat nails and Joycie could hear Marcus’s voice telling her that his mother rode her horse every day. ‘Loves that thing more than me and certainly more than Dad.’ I’m coming, Marcus, I’m coming. She turned back to the door.
‘Only next of kin allowed to visit for now, my dear.’ His father’s words came from far, far away. ‘We’re just here to get a few bits and pieces he might need.’ He went over to the drinks cabinet and held up a bottle of Scotch. ‘May I?’ Joycie managed to nod at him and he filled a glass, the bottle clinking on the side.
Mrs Blake’s voice was needle-sharp this time. ‘They say it was something to do with drugs. There were drugs in the house.’ She shook her head with a sound that was half sigh, half angry gasp.
‘It’s not the girl’s fault, Blanche. She wasn’t even here.’ He gulped from his drink.
Blanche – the name suited her – swayed when she stood, steadying herself with a hand on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’ll go and collect those things for him. We want to be back for visiting hour.’
‘I’d like to come to the hospital.’ Joycie’s voice sounded too loud.
Mrs Blake turned at the foot of the stairs. ‘They won’t let you see him.’
Was she angry? Joycie registered what she’d said about drugs in the house. Marcus never bought drugs. They’d smoked a joint or two at parties and that was all, but this wasn’t the time for arguments. She picked up her handbag.
‘Where is he?’
Mr Blake gave a smile that was so like Marcus’s it sent a spike of agony through Joycie’s heart. ‘It’s St Thomas’s Hospital, my dear, but as Blanche said we’re the only ones allowed to see him and then only for a short while.’
‘I’ll take a taxi,’ Joycie said.
***
It was true. They wouldn’t let her see Marcus; wouldn’t even tell her which ward he was in. So all she could do was hang around in the cavernous hospital entrance hall. It was gloomy with dark walls and a chilly tiled floor. Empty except for an occasional nurse in her white starched apron and cap hurrying past. Finally Marcus’s parents arrived. His dad, carrying a small leather holdall, smiled a weary smile at her, but his mother pretended to be searching for something in her bag.
Joycie sat on a bench and waited. It was her fault, although not at all in the way Mrs Blake seemed to think. She had no doubt this was Bill or those he worked for. They had planted the drugs so that only she would know why they had attacked Marcus. Why, why, had she carried on after his threats? Why had she imagined she was the only one in danger? They’d taken Fatty, hadn’t they?
She wondered about Fatty for a moment. Couldn’t remember if she’d left her in the house or the garden. And who had shut her out there with food and drink? If Marcus had been attacked in the house that meant he was home, so why would he do that?
After what seemed an age, but was probably less than an hour, Marcus’s parents came back. They were with a man in a crumpled grey suit: tall, solid, early thirties. He didn’t look like a doctor. Joycie stood up and this time Marcus’s mother looked straight at her.
‘This is my son’s colleague and lodger,’ she said.
The man smiled at her, his face flushing in a way that told Joycie he knew who she was. ‘I’m Inspector Flynn from the Metropolitan Police. I wonder if I could have a word with you, Miss …?’
‘Todd, Joyce Todd.’
Marcus’s mother moved away, but his father touched Joycie’s arm and spoke softly. ‘There’s no change. They say they’ll call us at the hotel if anything happens.’
‘You’re not going to sleep at the house?’
‘No, no, we’ll leave you in peace.’
Marcus’s mother was already standing by the row of swing doors at the entrance. She turned back when Joycie spoke.
‘Please, will you phone me when you hear?’
The smallest nod and a glance at her husband, who squeezed Joycie’s arm. ‘Of course we will, right away.’
After they’d gone Joycie sat on the bench again, too weak to stand. The policeman sat very close to her. She could feel the warmth from him and smell a hint of Old Spice. He rubbed his hands over his knees, the rough material of his trousers making a noise that set Joycie’s teeth on edge.
‘So.’ His voice echoed in the big tiled foyer and a doctor in a white coat, stethoscope hanging from his pocket, turned to look. Inspector Flynn twisted towards Joycie and spoke more quietly. ‘You don’t call yourself Orchid in normal life, then?’
‘No, that’s just for modelling.’
‘You’ve known Mr Blake for several years, I gather.’
‘Yes, he gave me my first break and we’ve worked together a lot since.’ She had to tell him everything – about Bill and the rest of it. Should have talked to the police before. But now she must make sure they didn’t get away with it. A deep breath, then: ‘I think I know who did this and why.’
Inspector Flynn smiled. It was a sweet smile. She thought she might be able to trust him.
‘That’s great news, Miss Todd. I’ve called a car to pick me up so what say we stop off at the station and you can tell me everything? Make a statement then I’ll get someone to take you home.’
The police car pulled up just as they came out of the doors. Inspector Flynn shepherded Joycie into the back and joined the PC in front. Joycie leaned back and closed her eyes, too tired even to think about Marcus. She must have dozed because the next thing she was aware of was the car doors opening and the PC getting out.
Inspector Flynn opened her door and leaned in. ‘I’ll be a minute or two, but I’ll organize a cup of tea while you wait.’
She followed him, still dazed with sleep, and he led her to a small room with a table and a few wooden chairs. When he left she rested her head on the table, but almost immediately a young WPC came in with a cup rattling in its saucer. The tea was weak and not all that hot and the thick white cup had a chip in it, but Joycie was so thirsty she drank it down quickly. Longing to get this over with and go home.
Inspector Flynn came in and she spoke as he pulled out a chair opposite her.
‘It was a man named Bill who did this to Marcus.’
‘And his other name?’
‘I don’t know, but I could describe him. He’s a gangster and I think he’s with Ernie Georgiou’s mob.’ Inspector Flynn nodded, seemed to be taking it seriously, although she knew how flimsy it must seem. ‘He’s been threatening me, you see, and he kidnapped our dog.’ Her voice sounded high and silly in the cold bare room and even when the inspector smiled, encouraging her to go on, she began to doubt she could make him understand.
‘You see my mother disappeared and I started to think someone had killed her, but when I talked to people about it this Bill threatened me.’
‘Your mother disappeared? When was this?’
‘Oh, a long time ago, 1953.’
He leaned forward, forearms on the table. ‘So what’s this got to do with the drugs? Was Bill Marcus’s supplier?’
‘No, of course not. Marcus doesn’t take drugs.’
Inspector Flynn was looking hard into her eyes now. His were so dark as to seem black with no visible pupil. He spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Miss Todd, Joyce, we found a large amount of cannabis in your house as well as quantities of illegal pills. So the likelihood is that Marcus was beaten for not paying up or maybe for selling to his mates. Stepping on the toes of the big boys.’
It was difficult to breathe. She stared dow
n at the scratched tabletop and the pale rings left by endless cups of tea. She could feel his eyes boring into her. What a fool she was. Their minds were already made up. There was no point in going on, but she had to try.
‘Where were these drugs?’
‘In the darkroom, which was where the attack took place. So it’s likely they’d just been delivered.’
‘Marcus doesn’t buy drugs or sell them.’
Flynn leaned back and folded his arms. ‘His parents say the same.’
‘They’re right.’
‘But then parents are always a bit naive, aren’t they? Old-fashioned and out of touch.’ He chuckled. ‘I mean, they think you and Marcus are just flatmates.’ Joycie folded her arms too, trying to calm her breathing. She was still staring down at the table, but she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘And Marcus’s mother claims the drugs must have belonged to you.’
Her heart began to drum. She wanted to jump up and run out, but would she be allowed to? A vision of handcuffs and police cells. Keep calm, talk firmly. ‘Neither of us has ever bought or sold drugs of any kind, Inspector.’
‘It’s possible, though isn’t it, that Marcus kept them in the darkroom to make sure you didn’t find them.’
His smile said he was offering her a way out, but she shook her head. ‘We have no secrets from each other and as I told you, I’ve been threatened because I was delving into my mother’s disappearance and those of two young girls.’
‘Okaaay.’ That smile was still in his voice. ‘And you’d like to make a statement about all this, would you?’
‘Yes.’
He went out and returned a moment later with a uniformed policewoman, who carried a large writing pad.
‘WPC Williams here will take down your statement.’
While she talked he leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching her. No expression on his face even when she described how Sid Sergeant had attacked her and that she thought he might have killed her mother and the girl in Hastings. It took a long time to go through the whole thing and the WPC stopped to rub her wrist a couple of times. By the end Joycie felt sick.
