by Daisy White
DETECTIVE RUBY BAKER
Books 1-3
Three gripping seaside mysteries box set
DAISY WHITE
CLICK ON THE BOOK YOU WANT TO GO TO:
Book 1: BEFORE I LEFT
Book 2: BEFORE I FOUND YOU
Book 3: BEFORE I TRUST YOU
CONTENTS FOR ALL BOOKS
BOOK 1: BEFORE I LEFT
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Acknowledgements
BOOK 2: BEFORE I FOUND YOU
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
BOOK 3: BEFORE I TRUST YOU
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
RUBY BAKER SERIES
GLOSSARY OF BRITISH AND PERIOD SLANG
FREE KINDLE BOOKS
BOOK 1: BEFORE I LEFT
A gripping mystery full of killer twists
DAISY WHITE
First published 2017
Joffe Books, London
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
The author asserts their moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
©Daisy White
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
Chapter One
The clouds jostle for room in the dark sky, patterning the road with monstrous shadows. My head is wedged against the window and my body jolts to the movement of the lorry. I watch as the moon slashes a welt of light, giving a tantalising glimpse of a smooth oily blackness that must be the sea. I lift my head properly, blinking stupidly, my eyes gritty and one side of my body sticky with sweat.
Mary snores peacefully, lolling back against the rickety seat. She’s pressed up against me, with her long pale fingers curled loosely over her stomach. Although we had to walk the first two hours, she was asleep from the moment we curled up together in the cab. I stayed awake from habit, one eye on the skinny, cheerful little man grinding the gears and humming to himself, the other on the counter on the dashboard clocking up the miles.
I don’t feel safe yet. I may never feel safe again, but at least I know we’ve taken the first steps. Made a choice. Which is more than Mum will ever do.
The smell of salt and rotten vegetables mingles unpleasantly with the diesel fumes from the lorry, and the driver calls out, bus conductor style, “Brighton seafront, ladies. Everyone off!”
“Thanks, Mick,” I tell him, shaking Mary awake and pushing her gently across the seat to the door. “We wouldn’t have made it tonight if you hadn’t come along.” I mean it too.
“Glad of the company, love. Now hop out. I’ve got to be in Rye by dawn with this lot.”
We wrench open the door, stagger out — half falling onto the pavement — and slam it shut quickly. Mick waves, little crumpled red face beaming, grey hair standing up in a tuft on his forehead as the lorry moves off with a roar.
“I feel sick,” Mary says suddenly as we hover uncertainly on the seafront, stretching our cramped limbs and trying to chase away that floating, exhausted feeling that comes from a long night.
She clings to a line of green metal railings that divides us from the beach, while I rub her shoulder anxiously. I know she’s okay really, because Mum was really sick with her last four pregnancies too. It’s natural. Both of us take great breaths of night air, and the spring breezes whipping off the English Channel slice through our thin dresses, despite the warmth of the night.
Finally Mary lifts her head, and gives me a shaky grin. The moonlight turns her pale, lank hair into a mop of silver, and her blue eyes are dark pits.
“We’ve bloody done it, Ruby! We’re in Brighton. I thought we were never going to make it. I really thought Derek would come back early, or your stepdad would see us on the main road.” She sniffs, clearly overcome by our success, and wipes the back of her hand across her nose and eyes.
Excitement fizzes deep in my stomach, and just for a moment as we cling together, I allow myself a glow of triumph. The bruises on my body won’t be joined by others tomorrow, and wherever we end up now, there will be no bellow of fury at lumpy gravy, or at fractious siblings who refuse to be quietened. No beer bottles will shatter the wall above my head, and no screaming babies will wake me from my sleep.
Except Mary’s, of course. But that’s different.
“Have you got the map, Rubes?” she asks. We turn from the sea to the city on the hill.
“Yeah. It should only take an hour or so to walk from here. Look, it’s getting light so it must be about four o’clock. Even if she’s doing a night shift, she’ll be back home for six. We can wait outside if we need to.” I haul the map out from my bag and spread out the crumpled sheet so we can both peer at it. The twist of unfamiliar street names leads all the way up to Elm Grove, which I have circled in red pencil.
We take a last look at the sea, which is now glittering pink and gold as dawn pushes gentle fingers through the dark clouds. Then we sh
oulder our bags, and head off up the hill.
* * *
“Oh my God, what have you done? And who is this?” Pearl says.
Mary instantly shrinks back into the shadow of the doorway, head down, and I’m reminded vividly of the day I first saw her. I’m also reminded — as if I needed to be — why we’re doing this. For both of us.
“Hi, Pearl, great to see you! Can we come in please? This is Mary. You know, I told you about her. She lives down the road from us.” I beam at my cousin, although I’m cringing inside at her reaction to our arrival.
Clearly deciding she has no choice, Pearl frowns, opens the door wide and waves us in. She is still wearing her starched student nurse uniform and shiny black shoes. It took a bit longer than we thought to walk up through the town, and at one point we went about two miles in the wrong direction, until a friendly milkman set us right. When we saw the sign for the hospital I knew we were going to be okay.
Pearl’s mum is my mother’s sister, and they named all their daughters after precious stones. She’s small and curvaceous, with a sweet smile, and a pretty freckled face. I haven’t seen her since Christmas, although of course we write every month. She has every right to be furious with me for pitching up unannounced — I definitely didn’t mention that Mary and I were coming to Brighton. Just as I didn’t tell her what happens at home when we aren’t all assembled for a cosy family gathering.
She doesn’t look that happy to see us. Her shocking red hair is neatly curled under her crisp white hat, and her pale face is scrubbed of makeup. She looks just as exhausted, after a long night shift, as we probably do after our eventful journey from Croydon.
“What have you done? Are you in trouble?” Pearl repeats, narrowing her eyes. She takes in our sweat-stained, bedraggled appearance, and the bulging paper bags at our feet.
“Peaaarrrl! Why do you always think the worst? We just wondered if we could — um — stay for a bit?” I flop down on her couch, pulling my cardigan sleeves down to hide the bruises on my arms. I really hope my brilliant plan isn’t going to go horribly wrong at the very last turn.
Mary hovers in the kitchen, biting her nails. One hand gently caresses her stomach, even though she isn’t showing at all yet. Pearl’s bedsit is pretty small, and the bed is crammed next to the sofa, which is right opposite the sink. She told the family all about it at Christmas. There are around twenty students in this block, and they only get one shared bathroom. But she gets to be independent, to have her own (tiny) space. Even now I can remember the pang of longing I felt when she described moving into her own place.
Somewhere to be completely alone when you need it, and to just be yourself with nobody yelling or screaming, and no sick guilty feeling in your stomach because you know you should pick up the crying baby, but you don’t really want to.
Pearl folds her arms across her chest now, and surveys us both with a stern expression, and one that suddenly makes me think she’ll be a brilliant matron one day. “I’m not stupid, Ruby. You send me letters every month, and not once did you mention an early morning visit. How did you get here anyway? The milk train?”
“We hitched a lift for most of the way. We missed the last bus because I couldn’t get away until after . . . um, after my husband went out.” Mary joins the conversation, nervousness jumbling her words. She tugs at the chest of her dress with shaky fingers and straightens the faded green fabric. Her blonde hair falls forward to hide her face.
“Mmmm.” Pearl studies her shrewdly, “Ruby talks about you all the time in her letters. In other circumstances I’d say pleased to meet you. How’s your mum, Ruby? Does she know what you’re up to?”
I avoid the question. “Oh, you know. She seems happy, and she’s due next month. Hoping for another girl, I think! How’s the training going?”
Ignoring my obvious subject change, Pearl pulls a face, “Seven kids! Rather her than me.” Finally pausing in her interrogation, she turns to her tiny cooker and takes a pan from under a yellow spotted curtain that hangs round the sink.
My shoulders sag with relief and I try to catch Mary’s eye, but her head is still down. I jump up from the couch, swallowing a hard ball of emotion and look through the yellowing nets at the small grimy window. All the while, I’m fighting to get rid of that choking fear that keeps swimming to the surface. This has to work. But if it doesn’t, I’d rather sleep on the streets than go back. I rub my bruised arms again and turn to face the other girls, waiting for the next question.
“And Mary’s husband? He’s clearly not come with you.”
Mary nods, sneaking a quick glance at my cousin from under her lank fringe. I swing back around to the window, unseeing, waiting.
Eventually, Pearl stops clattering drinks, and touches my shoulder gently. “Ruby? If you’re in trouble I’ll help, you know that, but you need to tell me the full story.” Her voice is suddenly gentle, her blue eyes are softer, and I want to cry. I want so much to cry. But I need to stay strong.
“Thanks Pearl. We just wondered if we could stay for a couple of days while we find some work. Then we’ll find a place of our own. Find jobs. Because . . . well . . .” I’m so ashamed I can’t speak. A tear falls off my lashes, wetting my chin. I turn away from the window and carefully roll up my sleeves to show her my arms.
“Oh God, Rubes! Have you been in a fight? Was it a boyfriend?” Pearl takes my wrists and turns them carefully, wincing more than me at the bruising. Her cool fingers press gently and expertly at an older injury. “That burn needs dressing. Ruby?”
“It was George,” I tell her, tears coming faster now. “He gets so angry all the time, and everything’s wrong. He doesn’t hit the little kids. He just ignores them unless we have someone round. It’s just me. Me and Mum. But she never tries to stop him, to stand up to him.” In fact she cowers in a corner, apologising over and over again, as George’s fists rain down on her head, her face, her already battered body.
I know it isn’t my fault, any more than Mary’s husband pushing her downstairs after he gets back from the pub is her fault. But nobody speaks about things like that. If I said anything to most people who live round us, they’d just shrug it off, and tell me to deal with it, it’s what men do. Must be your fault, they’d say. Clean the house better, keep the little kids quieter, work harder at teacher-training college, and make sure the men are happy.
“And your mum lets him hit you?” Pearl’s eyes are wide and shocked, “He always seems so gentle, and he adores you all. No, of course he doesn’t if he does this to you, but still . . . George. I would never have guessed. Does he get drunk?” She studies me, tilting my head gently with a professional hand. Clocking the marks on my neck, she casts a doubtful look at Mary, who seems to be trying to shrink into the soft furnishings. “And Mary?”
“Mary’s husband hits her, after he’s been down the pub. He gets really jealous if she talks to anyone, and last week he said the baby wasn’t his, and he . . . he pushed her down the stairs. I tried to tell Mum about Mary, but she didn’t want to know. She thinks you should just keep quiet and take it.”
I wonder suddenly what Mum will do when she finds I’m gone. I was so focused on escaping I never thought about my empty space in bed this morning. Garnet will be pleased to have the narrow covers all to herself, but will she miss cuddling up to her big sister? I reckon Mum will only care when all the kids keep howling, and nobody else goes to sort them out.
The milk boils over with a hiss, and the smell of burning. Pearl curses. She wipes up the mess with a dishcloth and pours us drinks in chipped blue enamel mugs, biting her lip with concentration, “I can’t believe this. I mean I do, of course I do, but God, what is wrong with people? And Mary is pregnant — that complicates things. How far gone are you?”
“Only about nine weeks . . . I don’t really know because my . . . my you-know-whats have been a bit funny for ages.”
“Mmmm. I suppose you haven’t been for any check-ups?”
Mary flushes, narrow shoul
ders hunched forward, and hands resting lightly across her flat belly in a protective gesture, “I couldn’t, I mean I did want to see the doctor but Derek, that’s my husband, he said no, because he’s a man. The doctor, I mean.”
Pearl narrows her eyes, “Unbelievable — no, not you, sweetheart, your bloody husband. No pains or bleeding since he shoved you downstairs?”
“No! I mean, I’m really tired, and I feel sick a lot of the time, but nothing else.”
Mary and I sit in silence. She chews her already ragged thumbnail, and I try to calm my frantic heartbeat. Please say yes, please say yes .
Finally Pearl yawns, and sits carefully on her neatly-made bed, sipping her drink. “Okay. Yes, of course. You can stay until we decide what to do with you. First I need some sleep. I’ve had a hell of a night. Then we’ll think of a way forward. You two can sleep in the bed, and I’ll have the couch. If you want to wash you can boil the kettle and there’s a basin over in the corner. The taps at the sink only run cold water, and there isn’t a plug. The toilet is on the left out of the door.”
“We don’t want to give you any trouble, Pearl. We’ll get whatever jobs we can, and find a place of our own,” I tell her. Guilt rises somewhere in my stomach. But as well as guilt there is a tidal wave of relief so violent and bone-shaking I nearly start crying again.
Pearl smiles at us both and wanders over to the radio. She switches it on and The Ronettes’ ‘Be My Baby’ blares out. She taps her teeth with one scrubbed white finger, concentrating. “I have a friend who owns a hairdressing salon. He has a hard time trying to get apprentices, because the pay is rubbish. Bit like nursing, really. Anyway, I bet I can get you set up there, and find you a room. Then it’s up to you. Right, now get some sleep!”
“Deal,” I say, my shoulders sagging with relief, while Mary just smiles. Her eyes, like mine, are wet with tears.
Within half an hour I’m curled up next to Mary again, but this time on rough, clean sheets, and with Pearl snoring softly across the room. The tiny bedsit smells pleasantly of disinfectant, and everything is immaculately tidy. I let my eyes rove around, taking in the little crate of enamel mugs, the two wooden chairs, and the tin bath leaning up against a tall cupboard. On the makeshift worktop, two clean dishes lie next to a chequered tea towel. A few cooking utensils hang neatly on the wall, just above a half-full bottle of ginger beer.
