by Daisy White
I can’t help the tears that run down my cheeks as I rise and fall with the waves, staring after the dead woman. At last, I scrub a hand across my stinging eyes and swim quickly to the shore, back to Mary.
“I was getting worried, and then I saw what those men brought in . . . How awful! Is she dead?” Mary, her face paler than ever, throws her own towel around my shoulders, and I realise my teeth are chattering.
“Yes, she is. I couldn’t work out what everyone was pointing at and then suddenly there was a body just floating in front of me.” I rub the towel vigorously across my body, until my cold flesh tingles with warmth and I stop shaking enough to sit down. “God, that was horrible. That poor woman. The men out there were shouting to each other that she must have jumped off the pier, or maybe the cliffs further down, but I reckon that was Beach Girl’s mother. She must have just walked into the sea the night of the storm.”
“Or if it isn’t her mother, she could have just fallen in, or come off a boat. I know Catrina was in the salon for a cut the other day and she said they get a lot of ‘jumpers’ in the summertime. She said her husband told her people buy a train ticket and come down here to die. He works up at the mortuary or something, I think, so I suppose he would know. I suppose it makes more sense to assume it must be Beach Girl’s mother, though. I know it’s been almost two weeks, but, well . . .”
I understand what she isn’t saying. On that stormy night the body could have been caught up under the pier, or further along the coast, before it floated down here again on the current. “That’s horrible.” I’m shivering again, hearing the girl’s screams in my mind. I force myself to relax and let the sun heat my body, but my mind is still on the horror from the sea. The little group around the body has swelled, and I can see more policemen coming. An ambulance has pulled up on the promenade, and some men are carrying a stretcher down through the day-trippers.
“Did you see her face at all?” Mary asks, peeking into the pram and smiling quickly at her still-sleeping baby, before turning to me with a serious expression. Her blue eyes are shadowed under her tan and little worry lines pucker her forehead.
“Yes . . . Do know what was really strange? My first thought was oh God please don’t let it be Beverly. It was like I’d been expecting her.”
“I suppose.” Mary shrugs, her blue eyes worried. “Did she have brown hair like Beach Girl?”
“Yes. I’m glad it wasn’t anyone I recognised, though. I’d hate to see them all bloated and pale like that . . .” I shiver again and Mary takes my hand.
“Do you want to go home?”
“No. I want to be out in the hot sun with a sleeping baby and lots of noise and distractions. Do you want to go?”
“No. Summer’s still asleep, so if you really are OK then I’m happy to stay here.” Mary bites her thumbnail. “It’s a horrible thing to happen, but I feel so much better out here on the beach.”
I drag my thoughts away from the blank, glistening face in the sea and focus on my best friend. “I’ve been really worried about you. Sometimes . . .” I take a deep breath, “Sometimes it feels like you aren’t really you anymore.” I hardly dare to look at Mary, but I can feel her breathing next to me, our warm bare arms touching.
“It feels like that for me too. I can’t really explain it, but it’s like a fog, or a dark curtain drawn across between me and the real world. I get so worried when I can’t stop Summer crying, I could scream — and then the feeling goes again, like clouds moving away. Today is the first time in ages I’ve felt properly alive again, like I can see things clearly. I was . . .” she pauses and puts a hand over mine, “I was worried I was going mad.”
There are tears in her big blue eyes, and she brushes them away, smiling. I’m so relieved I could burst into tears myself. I lean up and hug her. “It'll be alright, Mary. We'll cope with it together, and as Summer gets older you really must get out and have some fun too. She's so sweet most of the time, I really don’t mind babysitting.”
“You’re better than a husband any day, Rubes!” Mary says, still blinking hard. “Imagine if . . .”
“Don’t even think about it,” I tell her gently. “You got away from him, and Summer is all you. Hell, she’s certainly as stubborn, and sometimes you’re even quite sweet yourself. So, do you want those fish and chips in about half an hour?” I check my watch, wriggling onto my front and feeling the heat hit my naked back. “If I go about twelve I’ll beat the queues.”
“Yes please. Let’s give it another hour or so, eat our lunch and then I suppose we’d better go back. It’ll be too hot for Summer when she wakes up and I’ll have to feed her again.”
“If it makes you happy we can come to the beach every day after work. I don’t care what time it is! And I was thinking we might take Summer up to Alice’s Farm one day next week. Would that still be OK?” I pause and twist a strand of hair between my fingers. “I really think you could be right about Beach Girl, and if this woman is her mother I expect the police will want to see her again. No wonder she wouldn’t speak. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to see her go into the sea the night of the storm, and not be able to stop her. All she could do was scream for her to come back.” My voice shakes, and I get that pain in my throat thinking about it.
A bit later, when the grisly group and the poor dead woman have departed, I fumble in my purse for some coins. My stomach has settled again, and I shove that white, bloated face away from my thoughts. Very sad, yes, but nothing to do with me this time.
Dragging my dress on over limbs rough with salt, I push my sunglasses firmly into place and wander over to collect our lunch. There are only four other people in the queue. Perfect. I survey the sunlit scene with pleasure. As well as families, there are teenagers sunbathing with radios on full blast, older groups unpacking bottles of beer, and an ancient lady carrying a massive stick of pink fluffy candyfloss. Her slightly bemused-looking husband walks next to her, holding a little dog on a lead.
It’s nearly my turn to order when I notice a commotion at the top of the beach, near the promenade. People are packed so thickly here that it’s hard to make out individuals but I can hear angry shouting. A few cars seem to have stopped next to the crowd. Probably someone sitting on someone else’s beach towel, or a row over deckchairs, I think, my brain stupid with sun. I turn away.
“Two fish and chips please.” I hand over my money.
“Thanks, love. What’s going on up there?” Jerry, also known as Mr Fish, is shading his eyes and squinting at the crowd.
“I don’t know,” I start to say when a tall man in a blue shirt and shorts joins the queue.
“You’ll never guess what just happened! That poor lady nearly lost her child just a moment ago.”
My heart does a funny little flip and suddenly the smell of fish and chips drenched in salt and vinegar isn’t delicious at all. “You mean there was an accident on the road?”
The man looks hard at me, and then raises his voice, looking round at all of us, “I mean someone tried to take her child. Another girl was leading her away but luckily the brother saw what was happening.”
“What?”
The man nods. “A kidnapping. The police have been called and the girl who did it — well, it will be interesting to see what she has to say for herself.”
Unimpressed, Jerry doles out fish and chips and yells, “Next please,” taking the order before he turns to the tall man. “What nonsense. I’m sure there will be a perfectly simple explanation. Children don’t just kidnap other children!”
A fat elderly woman in pink joins in, “Oh, she isn’t a child. All of sixteen, I’d say, and a hard-faced little thing. There’s no doubt she was trying to take the younger girl away. I saw it with my own eyes.”
I almost run down the beach to Mary.
“What’s wrong? Careful, you’ll drop the chips!”
I collapse, gasping, on my towel, glancing back up to the swelling crowd. “Did you hear all that shouting?”
“Someone just tried to kidnap a little girl.”
“Bloody hell!” Mary instinctively reaches out to pull Summer’s pram a little closer, scuffing the wheels on the pebbles. “Who told you? Surely it must be a mistake. Nobody would try to take a child with all these crowds! What is happening today?”
The sound of another police siren echoes across the beach and the buzz of chatter escalates. Kids are still screaming at the water’s edge, still dropping ice cream on their swimsuits and building sandcastles. But suddenly there are adults right next to them. Parents who were earlier lounging on their own towels, cracking bottles of Coca Cola or laughing with friends, are now shielding their offspring as though from some unknown threat.
“I think if you were going to take a child this would be the perfect place to do it,” I tell Mary. “Let’s go home.”
We roll up the towels, shove the fish and chip papers into the basket, and yank the pram up towards the promenade. Two tanned young men in jeans help us crest the last bank of shingle, and we thank them profusely.
It’s hard going, winding our way through the almost solid mass of people, but we shove and apologise, and finally make our way back to Ship Street.
“Phew!” Mary says, stopping for a moment to pull her hair back into a plait and wipe sweat off her face, “I thought we were never going to get out of there. I tell you what, I’d hate to be the chap who tried to kidnap the little girl. All of Brighton will be out to get him.”
I wipe a forearm across my own sweaty face, feeling my dress sticking uncomfortably to my wet back. “It wasn’t a man. Apparently it was another girl.” I stretch a hand into the basket and grab a handful of chips.
Mary stares at me, then swears as the pram wheel hits a bump in the paving slabs. The pram jolts and Summer’s eyes pop open. We both freeze, expecting screams, but she just gives a little yawn and calmly takes in her surroundings.
By the evening we have discussed every possible angle to both the suspected kidnapping and the dead woman’s story. Even though there's no way they could be connected, we both keep coming back to Beverly.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit strange that Beverly gets released and all these things start happening? You find Beach Girl, then she asks you to help her. You find a dead body floating in the Channel and then some other girl is involved in a suspected kidnapping. Apart from the first thing, this has all happened right after you started asking questions about Beverly’s case . . .” Mary is waving a doll around for Summer’s amusement, making it dance in midair. The baby is crowing with laughter. “And don’t forget Laura Grieves going to the police. That's another strange thing because really, why should she go and admit she lied now?”
I pour us both a glass of milk and perch on my bed, legs curled under. Even though we have a table and chairs, we only use them for mealtimes. Beds are far more comfortable for chatting. “I don’t know, but I really can’t see how this can all be connected. It’s too random. Maybe we’re just picking up on events that affect us. Things do happen all the time in a big town. Especially one near the sea. All these day-trippers who come down and hire boats without any local knowledge . . .”
“Well, I’d bet you my tips for next week this all leads back to Beverly Collins. Think about it, Rubes. You heard all that gossip as we walked home! Nobody seems to quite know what happened but something is sure as hell going on.”
I nod, seeing again the pale body rising and falling in the waves, and Beverly’s determined face as she instructed me to find her daughter.
Chapter Fourteen
Summer sleeps well, and Mary is snoring peacefully, but I can’t relax. By the time the first streaks of dawn are sketched across the night sky, I have only managed a few wakeful hours. Too many missing pieces, and when I add Laura’s sudden attack of conscience to the equation it gets even more confusing.
I’m yawning as we head into work early. Mary goes off to drop Summer with Mrs Carpenter for the day, and I set up on my own, enjoying the early morning peace of the salon as usual. Working quickly, I lay out fresh towels, before going back to my chart on the wall. I can’t stop thinking about the incidents yesterday.
I’m not really surprised when two policemen appear just after our first clients have been shampooed and ask for a ‘quick word’. Inspector Hammond hasn’t changed since I saw him last. I’m not sure why I expected that he would, really, as it’s only been a couple of months. He's still tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, with direct slate-coloured eyes and a square sweaty face. His hair is grey too, despite the fact I know he’s only in his early forties.
Mary calls over that Kenny is on the telephone, but I shake my head and wave towards the policemen. “Tell him I’ll have to ring him later.”
Johnnie, late into work and just back from whatever escapade he had planned for the weekend, is in a mischievous mood and engages the two policemen in conversation, needling Inspector Hammond just ever so slightly. A dangerous move, clearly designed to remind the inspector exactly how much he has to lose. As I said, only a few of us know that Johnnie is queer, though others might suspect. Even fewer know about Johnnie’s affair with the inspector, and that’s really how it needs to stay. It isn’t just Johnnie’s family who would be hit by the scandal — Inspector Hammond has a wife and young children, plus he’s a policeman for God’s sake. I can’t imagine what the police force would do to him. It wouldn’t be pleasant. The papers would love it, too, and it wouldn’t just be the Herald making him front-page news.
Johnnie also winks at me, and says we’ll talk about dead bodies and kidnappings after I’ve been arrested, so he clearly already knows all about our weekend. Probably knows a whole lot more than the boys at the Brighton Herald, which lies open and slightly torn on one of the chairs by the window. Although I’m sure Kenny and James will be round soon to catch up on the gossip . . .
As the salon is packed with inquisitive clients I take the policemen outside, and we sit awkwardly on the little wrought iron chairs and tables. I almost want to laugh. It’s like a tea party gone wrong. Mary casts an anxious glance out the window from her position at the reception desk and I smile reassuringly at her.
“Miss Baker, this is Detective Sergeant Little.” Inspector Hammond nods at his colleague, and I smile blandly at the stocky, bald-headed man at his side. He doesn’t smile back.
“How can I help you?” I push my hair back and narrow my eyes against the sun.
“We heard that Miss Beverly Collins enlisted your ‘services’. She asked you to help find the daughter she believes went missing ten years ago. Is that true?” DS Little is abrupt and fires the question so suddenly that I almost jump. He also says the word ‘services’ in such a way that the implication of wrongdoing is clear. He is probably the type of man who would say prostitutes offer ‘services’. He might also be the type to take advantage of those ‘services,’ judging by the way his gaze lingers on my chest.
I frown at him, feeling my cheeks redden. “Since you just told me you already know, then why bother to ask?” Rude, I know, but I can see where this is heading.
“Miss Collins is under the impression you are some kind of amateur detective.” Again that patronising tone.
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, as it happens. That came from another source.”
An image of Laura Grieves pops into my head . . .
DS Little is speaking again, his voice driving nails into my head. “. . . but you must understand, and I know you received a warning earlier in the year, you can’t just investigate police cases whenever you feel like it. I’m sure you are a very good hairdresser, so maybe you should stick to that? We really can’t have a woman getting in the way of any official investigations. You might get injured or s
ee things that would upset you.”
I struggle to keep my expression neutral as a mixture of fury and hilarity rises to the surface. Upset me! I've killed two men. The patronising arse. Does he think I should be sitting at home, knitting and nursing babies?
Inspector Hammond glances at his colleague, seems to realise that he has gone too far, and leans forward, smiling. “Miss Baker, I would be most grateful if you could tell us what you have discovered in relation to the Collins case.”
“Hang on a minute, either you want me to back off and ‘stick to hairdressing’, or you want me to tell you the results of my investigations. Which is it?” A bit childish, I suppose, and baiting policemen is not a recommended activity, but they’re really annoying me.
The inspector sighs, his grey gaze sharpening, big shoulders hunched with annoyance. “OK, Ruby, I’ll make it simple for you. Don’t get involved in something that could put you in danger, and do share anything you might hear around the town with us. And don’t get started with that investigation agency again. The Beverly Collins case was complex, and her release has stirred up a lot of bad feeling. Brighton is a small town when it comes to things like this, and the residents look after their own.”
“I totally agree with you, Inspector,” I tell him. “Unfortunately, I haven’t really managed to get any information that might help Beverly find her daughter yet. But if I do hear of anything, just by chance, then I’ll be sure to telephone you.”
DS Little nods and takes out a notebook, thumbing through the pages with slightly grubby hands. His fingernails are far too long for a man, and there is dirt under the nails too. In fact, everything about him makes me feel slightly sick. He makes several notes with a bitten pencil, and then they both appear to feel the interview is over.
