I sat on one of the armchairs opposite Sylvia Moore who was perched on the edge of the sofa staring unseeingly at the fading embers of the fire. Neither of us spoke, each lost in our own world of silent thought. Beryl Garner was upstairs putting her mother to bed. She had calmed her down with remarkable power. All the sound and fury had leaked away from her as quickly as it came. Once the anger had left Mrs Stoker’s body, she seemed to shrink in size and reacted to her daughter’s ministering like a docile child. Without a word she was led away to rest upstairs. It was like a scenario from a bizarre modern drama. There had been lots of activity but little dialogue and as yet no real interaction between me and the two new characters on stage.
I had just finished the cigarette and flicked the tab end into the fire, causing a small splutter, when Beryl came back into the room.
‘She’s sleeping now,’ she said, matter of factly.
‘So, Beryl Garner, you are alive after all,’ I said.
‘I suppose I am.’
‘You realize that I’m going to have to call in the police.’
At first Beryl looked distressed at this news, but then she nodded grimly and glanced over at Sylvia. ‘We knew this would happen one day. But please keep my mother out of it.’
‘She tried to kill me.’
‘Only to protect me. She really acted out of character. The whole thing has been a bigger strain on her than us. Looking after me, keeping a secret. Wanting the best for her little girl.’
I could see that she was right.
‘Well, I think you’d better tell me the whole story,’ I said, reaching for another cigarette.
Beryl nodded, wiping a strand of hair from across her eyes. ‘Can you spare one of your fags?’ she asked gently.
‘Sure,’ I said, passing her the packet. After I lit her cigarette for her, she sat on the sofa, close to Sylvia and sighed.
‘Where to begin? Where was the beginning? When I was very young, I suppose. Around thirteen or fourteen. My body was changing and I suppose my mind began to focus. While all the other girls in my class at school were drooling over the boys in the nearby grammar school, I had crushes on girls in my own class. Even at that age, I knew it was wrong or not appropriate to feel attracted to them—but I just couldn’t help it. It just seemed natural to me. But I quickly realized it wasn’t. Natural that is. Quite the reverse. I soon saw myself as odd, an outsider. I knew then it was best to hide my…inclinations. After leaving school and starting work, I realized that I had to do more than conceal my feelings, I had to squash them altogether—deny they existed. I had to fool myself. I was desperate to be normal. To just be ordinary. In the end I confided in my mother who was sympathetic, but to be honest I reckon she thought it was a phase—something I’d grow out of. So, I started going out with boys…but I felt nothing. There was no real connection between us. There were some disastrous dates, I can tell you.’ She allowed herself a brief smile.
‘It was different with Brian. He seemed a nice chap and I was easy in his company…at first. He was older than me and I suppose he became a kind of father figure. My own dad died when I was fourteen. Brian and I were just friends to begin with and then gradually he started to chat me up. He said he’d fallen in love with me. What could I do? I either had to ditch him as a friend or…accept him as a lover and a husband in prospect. In some strange and, I suppose, stupid way, I thought he could be my salvation. He could cure me of my terrible disease. And so I allowed myself to be wooed by him and eventually we got married. But I knew well before the wedding day that it was a mistake. You cannot alter what you feel, what you are. Anyway, I walked down the aisle, we said our I dos and that I suppose sealed our fate. I was determined to be a good wife, but underneath I was seriously unhappy. At that time I had never heard the word ‘lesbian’ and was naïve enough to believe I was unique.’
Sylvia Moore slipped her hand into Beryl’s and gave it a gentle squeeze, before withdrawing it again.
‘Once we were married, Brian changed. It was quite dramatic. He was no longer the caring, easy-going chap I’d known. It was as though now he had me, now that I was his property, he no longer had any need to keep up his pretences. He became violent. He would find excuses to lose his temper with me…and when he lost his temper he hit me. He seemed to gain some special pleasure in using his fists on a woman, on me. I think it aroused him sexually to…to hit me. So you see, I was not the only freak in this marriage.’
Her eyes were now moist and she ran her sleeve across her face to wipe away the tears. I said nothing and waited for her to collect her emotions and continue.
‘Then, I met Sylvia. And everything changed. I realized that I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t the only one. We knew instinctively that not only did we share the same kind of feelings but also we liked each other very much as well. It was a revelation to me…a salvation. The liking quickly turned to love. For the first time in my adult life I was really happy. And so we became lovers.’ She paused and gave me an uncompromising glance. ‘Does that shock you?’
I shook my head. ‘Not at all,’ I said simply. I had no wish to say more. I didn’t want to distract the flow of her narration. And indeed, it didn’t shock me. Why should it? Brought up as an orphan, I knew how precious love and affection were from wherever they came. I cannot claim to understand the attraction that members of the same sex have for each another, but I am not brainy or narrow-minded enough to condemn it. I knew how difficult it was for people like Harold Crabtree to function in society unscathed.
‘My life suddenly became one of vivid contrasts: the harsh, violent home life with a man I had grown to hate and the quiet snatched loving moments with Sylvia. It was decided between us that I should leave Brian and we would set up home together, but I knew that if I just left, he would set out to find me and drag me back. After all he had the law on his side. I was his wife—his legal property. Then Sylvia’s mother fell desperately ill. We knew she was dying and so we came up with a plan.’
I now saw what I believed was the outline of this plan, but again I said nothing and waited for Beryl to continue and fill in the details for me and confirm my thoughts.
‘We decided to fake my death. That would bring a final closure on my wretched marriage and Brian would have to accept it. Sylvia’s mother passed away at home and we covered up her death, not letting any of the neighbours know. She had no close relatives and having been ill for such a long time she had lost touch with any friends she’d had in her younger days. We felt awful about using poor Sylvia’s mother in this way, but we know that she would have done anything to help us be together.’
Beryl glanced at Sylvia who gave her a supportive nod of the agreement.
‘It was then that I pretended I was leaving Brian for another man. Actually I never used the word “man”, he just assumed my lover was male. We arranged to crash the car with Sylvia’s mother’s body inside dressed in my clothes. We made sure the cab of the motor was a burnt-out shell so that the corpse was unrecognizable. The registration, which was in the Garner name, and some luggage in the boot gave evidence as to the supposed identity of the driver.
‘The plan worked remarkably well. Brian—and the authorities—believed that I’d perished in the crash. Well, they had no reason to be suspicious. At last Sylvia and I were free to start a life together, helped by the thousand pounds I had taken from our bank account. I suppose you might call that stealing, but it was in essence both our savings and I thought I’d earned it through all the beatings I’d suffered at his hand.
‘It all seemed to be going well. We rented a flat in Cartwright House and both returned to work as hairdressers—but in different salons. And life was sweet. Then a couple of weeks ago, I saw Brian again. At South Kensington tube station. What was worse, he saw me. He recognized me…called out my name. It was such a shock. I panicked and fled but he chased after me. Thankfully I managed to lose him. However, I knew he wouldn’t let the matter rest there and sure enough you came snooping after me, fol
lowing my trail—and Sylvia’s. We felt like trapped animals on the run. We had to leave our lovely flat and run to ground—here at my mother’s house. She’s always been supportive. She knew everything: my relationship with Sylvia and my faked death. She was with me all the way. I think she hated Brian even more than me.’
‘Did your mother kill him?’
Beryl shook her head. I could see from her expression that she considered the idea as being preposterous. ‘No. You must believe me about that. I know she went wild with you, but you had cornered her in her own home; she was desperate to protect her little girl. Besides, she hasn’t been out of the house, except to the shops down the road, for the last two days. She couldn’t do anything like that in cold blood.’
I did believe her but that still left me with a problem. ‘Have you any idea who might have murdered Brian?’
She flinched at the word ‘murdered’. ‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘But I can’t help feeling relieved to know he’s dead.’
The three of us sat without speaking for some moments, the ticking of the clock sounding unnaturally loud in the silence.
Sylvia was the first to speak. ‘What are you going to do now?’
It was a good question. I wasn’t sure I had the right answer. These two women were not evil, merely victims of circumstances and indeed emotional forces beyond their control. Certainly Beryl had suffered more than enough at the hands of her brutish husband. What, I wondered, would be the benefit in reporting them to the law? Beyond faking a death they had not committed any really serious offence. There were no wrongs that could be righted in this case.
I pursed my lips and sighed. ‘Nothing. I am going to do nothing.’
*
I left them shortly after that and took a long walk back into the city of Oxford. I wanted time on my own to think. I had a strange empty feeling inside my stomach. That wretched situation was over for Beryl and Sylvia, I guessed. Very shortly they would be able to pick up the strings of their life where they had left off, but because of the very nature of their relationship things were never going to be easy or relaxed for them. They were still outcasts. And for that I felt sorry for them.
And of course there was one strong niggling question lurking at the back of my mind. Who had killed my wife-beating client Brian Garner?
Twenty
Max finished the last of her lunchtime sandwiches while chatting to a couple of the chorus girls who were bright and giggly local lasses and ‘so excited’ at appearing in ‘a proper show’ and being part of the glamorous world of ‘show business’. It was their first professional engagement as dancers and they were over the moon at being engaged to take part in this pantomime. She confided in them that this was her first show working on costumes. Their enthusiasm and happiness was infectious and, as Max made her way back to her little workshop at the very back of the theatre, she couldn’t help smiling. Despite being alone in a strange city and parted from Johnny, she had found herself part of a new small family at the theatre—a team of really friendly folk. Certainly the show would not be as lavish as the ones in London, but it would be colourful and fun and she knew it would bring some much wanted cheer and escapism so necessary in these difficult days.
In recent months she had extended her talents beyond that of making theatrical masks into costume making and design. This had been for practical reasons. There was much less demand for masks than there had been before the war and she knew that she had to diversify a little if she were to make enough money to survive. After several ventures, this job at Nottingham Playhouse was her first big challenge and she was enjoying the experience.
Although she missed Johnny, it was wonderfully comforting to know that he felt the same and that he would be waiting for her with open arms when her tasks in Nottingham were complete and she returned to London. In many ways, she thought, she had never been happier.
*
Caroline was waiting for Peter at the school gates as she said she would be. He recognized her lithe silhouette with her long tumbling hair and tightly belted gabardine mac and in the gloom he could see the bright white daisy she had painted on her gas-mask box which was slung around her shoulders.
He felt a tingle of excitement as she turned at his approach and smiled.
Gosh, she was pretty. And she was waiting for him.
‘Hello,’ he said shyly, matching her smile.
‘Hello.’
They stood awkwardly facing each other, both not knowing what to say next as the stream of schoolchildren flowed past them.
‘Shall we go for a walk then,’ Peter said at last. ‘Maybe get a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, that would be nice.’
They set off down the road together, Peter itching to take hold of her hand but not daring to.
‘Did you have old Mother McGovern for maths today?’ Caroline asked him casually. To Peter’s mind she seemed much more relaxed about this meeting than him.
‘No…but I’ve got her tomorrow. Worse luck,’ he replied.
‘She’s as mad as a hatter. I’m sure she’s a German spy sent here to make our lives miserable.’
Peter giggled. ‘In that case she must be in league with Fancypants Fanshaw. He’s enough to drive anyone up the wall. I’m sure that monocle of his is some kind of secret weapon.’
They both laughed comfortably and Peter allowed his hand to brush against hers. She did not flinch at the contact. Was this a sign? Taking a deep breath, he slipped his fingers so that they interlocked with hers. She said nothing but gave his hand a little squeeze.
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in the Elite Café drinking tea and sharing a rather dried up Eccles cake between them. ‘It’s the last one, I’m afraid,’ said the lady who served them. Secretly Peter was relieved. His pocket money was running a little low.
They were now comfortably holding hands across the table like a real girl and boyfriend. Peter thought they were like one of those couples that he had seen in the pictures: he in uniform about to go off to war, she dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief and trying to be brave.
In the light of the café Peter could see that Caroline was wearing a little make-up: her cheeks were powdered and she had lipstick on, making her lips all shiny and red. As a result she looked older than her fourteen years. Quite the young miss.
‘I think your flannels are brilliant,’ she said, brushing the crumbs of the Eccles cake from her chin.
‘Thanks. Johnny bought them for me. You know, I’ve told you all about him.’
Indeed he had.
‘I bet you’re glad to get out of short pants,’ she said, smiling.
‘You bet. They were really embarrassing.’ In truth he knew that Caroline Weston would not be sitting here in the Elite Café holding hands with him if he were still in those wretched short trousers.
As they finished their tea and the waitress brought the bill, it seemed like it was time for the big moment. His heart began to beat faster and he felt sure his palms were beginning to sweat. Nevertheless, he was not going to funk it.
‘Caroline…’
‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering…’ He hesitated, courage beginning to fail him.
‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering if…if you…I was wondering if you’d like to be my girlfriend.’
He looked away. He couldn’t bear to watch her reaction.
She leaned forward and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. ‘Of course,’ she said, a wide grin on her face.
*
As dusk fell on the city, Gina was luxuriating in the bath, up to her neck in scented foam and deliberating on her lunchtime meeting with Vic. At the thought of his handsome but troubled features, she smiled. She knew that he was not to he trusted and she also knew that he felt the same way about her. But, as long as she kept her wits about her, she felt confident she could make him biddable.
All in all things were going her way. Here she was ensconced in her own smart hideaway, the address know
n only to Leo and the boys. Better still the police had no knowledge of her and yet she was already pulling various strings and laying the foundations for her own little empire. Growing up away from the warmth and security of a family—however corrupt and immoral the family were—had not only instilled into Gina a cast iron self-sufficiency but had also made her very ruthless. She didn’t form attachments and had no time for sentiment. In many ways her early institutionalized years were not too dissimilar to those of Johnny Hawke, but they had affected her differently. Unlike Johnny, she cared for no one but herself and was not prepared to let anyone stand in her way. Anyone who tried would be dealt with speedily and without mercy.
Gina scooped up a handful of foam and gently blew the white bubbles into the air with a satisfied chuckle.
Twenty-One
The train crawled its way back to London, grinding to a halt on several occasions for no apparent reason. At least it gave me time to mull over my various concerns. I believed that I had done the right thing in deciding not to alert the authorities to the fact that Beryl Garner was still alive, although I’m sure David and his police chums would have a different opinion. But for me morally, it was the correct decision. No real good would come from exposing Beryl now and she had suffered enough. Also, bringing her into the open may very well muddy the waters regarding Brian Garner’s murder. On reflection I believed that I could clear that up fairly quickly, although it wouldn’t bring me great pleasure to do so. Garner had died as he had lived: violently. I am not saying he deserved to die, but at the same time I believed that he had brought it on himself and I had no sympathy for him.
My other thoughts were on the Bernstein business and my concern here was to find out more about the mysterious Gina. She was the key to the Ricotti murder and the protection racket. As the train juddered its way towards Kings Cross, I hatched a little plan which would aid me in this investigation.
The station was heaving when I arrived and, despite my valiant efforts of pushing, shoving and squeezing, it took me nearly five minutes to pass through the crush of passengers to reach the exit. Once outside, I hailed a taxi but the rush-hour traffic clogged the roads. I may well have been quicker walking. Eventually I reached Oxford Street, but Prestige Photographic Studios had already shut up shop for the day. I gave a muted curse and set off on foot for home. I hoped my evening plans would not be so easily scuppered.
The Darkness of Death Page 13
