by Daisy White
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?”
“Not really, I thought it was still probably about that poor woman they just pulled out the sea.” Mary smiles falteringly at me, before reaching out to touch my arm. Her expression changes from happiness to concern. “What’s going on now?”
“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 see 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.
It isn’t. “What happened on the beach yesterday? Who was the woman who drowned? And the girl who tried to kidnap a little child?”
“Were you there?” Inspector Hammond’s voice is idle, resigned even, but the eyes are still hard. Again I’m reminded that despite his physical appearance and slightly awkward social skills, he is pretty good at dealing with criminals. His colleague is staring so hard, I can practically feel his gaze strip skin off my face, but at least he is now looking at my face instead of my breasts. All trace of superiority gone, he’s trying to read my mind. Why? Is there a link to Beverly and the incident on the beach?
“I was swimming in the sea when I saw the body. Some men came and hauled her in to shore. I didn’t see where she came from or anything or I’d have told the policemen on the beach. Same with the kidnapping. I was there but not near enough to see anything. I was actually queuing for chips and a couple of people told me what happened. It seems a bit odd to have two major incidents on the beach within a couple of hours of each other, doesn’t it? Not just those things, but Beach Girl . . . I mean the girl we rescued off the beach in the storm.”
The inspector clears his throat. “You haven’t lived here long, have you, Ruby? Unfortunately we get incidents on the beach all the time in the summer. Missing children are common, and so, sadly, are bodies. Day-trippers without a proper knowledge of tides get caught out, or some poor souls who mean to end their lives in Brighton. Normally they go to Beachy Head, but the tide can wash bodies up anywhere along the coast, depending on current and wind direction.”
“So you think that this woman did take her own life?”
“It’s a possibility. Her name was Susie Stocker, and we know she had been ill for some time. Her husband has confirmed that she knew she wouldn’t get better and she had been very emotional recently. A very sad case.”
My mind buzzes with the name but I can’t quite place it. “And the girl on the beach? Can you tell if she was her daughter?”
“We are investigating the possibility. I will tell you that at present we have no knowledge of Mrs Stocker having had a child, so it seems unlikely.” The inspector smiles, lighting a cigarette. “Has Miss Collins mentioned any trouble to you? Since she came back, I mean . . .”
That’s it, then, he’s given me a little titbit and now he wants me to play nicely too. “No, she hasn’t. I do think it is odd that Laura Grieves suddenly decided to come forward though — don’t you?”
He blows out a plume of smoke and rubs a big hand through his grey hair, making it stand up in sweaty spikes. “Possibly.”
“And the kidnapping on Sunday?”
DS Little scowls at Hammond, clearly deciding he has put up with me for long enough. He leans forward, elbows on the table, so close I can smell his sour breath. “With respect, that is nothing to do with you. And the supposed ‘kidnapping’ on Sunday was a misunderstanding between a group of women.” He emphasises the word women, and lets his gaze drop disdainfully to my chest.
“Right. Well then, I’m afraid I really don’t know any more, and I need to get back to work,” I tell them, rising from my chair abruptly, glaring at DS Little.
They glance at each other, back at me, and then to my surprise, get up to go.
“Thank you, Miss Baker. We’ll be in touch,” Inspector Hammond says, polite as ever, smiling again, straightening his tie. DS Little nods at me, still scowling, and they stomp off down the hill to the waiting police car. I squint after them, wondering how muc
h more they know that I don’t. I’m also wondering if Laura told them I was helping Beverly, and if so exactly what she is playing at . . .
“Why didn’t they arrest you?” Johnnie asks, as I walk briskly back into the salon and throw myself into shampooing.
I roll my eyes at him, “Because I’m innocent, of course!”
All the clients have seen me sitting with the police so the general chat is all about what crime I may or may not have committed. This continues even though I’m now actually back in the room. When I nip out to make more cups of tea, Mary follows me.
“What’s going on? What did they say to you?” Her face is pale and worried.
“Nothing. Well, they just asked me if it was true that Beverly asked me to look for her missing daughter. In fact, they said they knew it was true, and then told me to keep my big nose out of trouble and leave the investigating to the police.”
“They said that?”
“In a nicer way, I suppose. Tell you what, though, they practically ran down the hill to get away when I started asking about that kidnapping and the body on the beach yesterday. They did say that the woman in the sea was called Susie Stocker, and they implied she probably did take her own life, because she was sick and not likely to get better. That vile little man with Hammond was DS Little. He said the kidnapping was just a misunderstanding. Oh, and Hammond is on the case investigating whether Susie Stocker was Beach Girl’s mother. Chances are she isn’t because they don’t think she had a child.”
Mary chews a fingernail, no flicker of recognition at the name of the dead woman. “I was talking to Mrs Carpenter when I dropped Summer off and she has a friend who is the sister of the parents whose little girl was supposedly being kidnapped . . . OK, even I’m confused now. Anyway, the parents were adamant they’d never seen this other girl before. They said she wasn’t from round here, and they also said she was dressed a bit oddly. Not crazy odd, but in a really old-fashioned frilly party dress — not the kind of thing you'd wear as a teenager.”
