Simon and I were vaguer, more liberal. We told Georgie that some people believed in Father Christmas and LBJ and that they were lovely ideas that involved kindness and generosity. As far as I know Georgie has never hankered after Catholicism or any other supernatural philosophy. But looking at Daisy today I wonder if this is a good thing after all. At least she has something, something between her and the darkness.
I don’t stay for the wake. I have to get back to teach in the afternoon and, besides, what could I say to Rick’s friends and family? On the way out I stop to say hallo to Daisy and offer my condolences. In answer to my stilted sentences, she gives me a look of such disdain and hatred that I almost stagger backwards.
I’m driving Liz back to school (Tony has, of course, stayed to press hands and say how very sorry he is) and, as we stop for one of the countless red lights on Brighton’s coast road, I say, ‘Did you see the look that Daisy Lewis gave me?’
Liz is silent for a minute and then she says, ‘It must be hard for her. Rick was all she had.’
I like Liz and I’m not about to let her get away with this.
‘That doesn’t explain why she hates me.’
‘She doesn’t hate you,’ says Liz, looking out of the window towards the skeleton of the West Pier, ‘she’s jealous of you.’
‘Jealous of me? Why?’
‘She obviously knows that Rick was in love with you.’
‘Rick wasn’t in love with me.’ The lights turn green and I stall the car. The bus behind me hoots. So much for everyone in Brighton being laid-back and green.
Liz says nothing so I say, ‘It was Ella he had an affair with, you know.’
‘I know,’ says Liz. ‘But it was you he liked first. I remember warning him about it. Poor Rick. I liked him but he was so weak.’
‘That’s how men get away with it, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Everyone makes excuses for them. Rick cheats on his wife and everyone says “poor Rick, he just couldn’t resist Ella’s wicked wiles”.’
‘That’s not what I said,’ says Liz.
‘I didn’t encourage Rick, you know. I told him that there could never be anything between us.’
‘I didn’t say you encouraged him,’ says Liz. ‘I just said that Daisy’s obviously jealous of you. Rick was obsessed with you and you didn’t even want his devotion.’
But this still sounds like a criticism. We don’t talk much for the rest of the journey.
It’s another long day. We have a rehearsal after school. The performance is less than two weeks away and I’ve had to replace the bloody Plant with a stand-in who’s about two foot tall. Georgie comes to watch the rehearsal, partly because Tash is in the chorus. I’m less than pleased to see Patrick O’Leary slide into the seat beside Georgie and whisper to her throughout ‘Somewhere That’s Green’. Pippa, who plays Audrey, cries twice and keeps looking over at them. I hope she’s not another misguided fool with a crush on the O’Leary boy.
When the rehearsal is finally over, Georgie, Tash and Patrick go into a huddle. Pippa is looking tearful.
‘Are you OK?’ I say. ‘You’re going to be really good, you know.’ This is true. It’s the others who are the problem.
‘I’m OK, Miss Cassidy. Just time of the month. You know.’
Too much information. But I put on a caring teacher smile and say, ‘Well, go home and get some rest. Full run-through on Monday. I need my Audrey firing on all cylinders.’ I raise my voice. ‘Come on, Georgie, time to go.’
‘Keep your hair on, Mum.’ This raises a laugh.
We drive home through another sea fret, landmarks appearing out of nowhere, eerie clouds drifting through the trees. Georgie is obviously carrying on an entertaining WhatsApp conversation on her phone. I switch on Radio 4. It’s The Archers and an exhausted-sounding man is talking about artificial insemination.
‘For God’s sake.’ Georgie unplugs herself. ‘Do we have to listen to this?’
I turn off the radio. The mist is denser than ever, it’s like driving through clouds. The factory has vanished completely. I can only just make out the orange light from the three lampposts on our pathetic strip of road. When I get out of the car, I can barely see my own front door.
It’s a complete surprise, then, when Harbinder’s voice speaks out of the fog.
‘Clare. Something’s happened.’
Chapter 39
‘What?’ I say. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Let’s go inside.’ I can see Neil Winston looming behind Harbinder. An official visit, then.
‘What’s going on, Mum?’ Georgie takes my arm. She’s carrying Herbert, who has had a long session at Doggy Day Care.
‘Have you got the house keys?’ Harbinder’s voice is almost disembodied. And, of course, I can’t find the keys. My fingers are numb and eventually, Harbinder has to take my bag from me.
Once inside, Harbinder switches on the lights and ushers us into the sitting room. Neil is dispatched to make tea. Now I’m really worried.
‘I don’t want you to panic.’ That’s the first thing she says.
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Now I’m really panicking.’
Harbinder glances at Georgie, who is sitting on the sofa with Herbert on her lap.
‘It’s your ex-husband, Simon.’
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this.
‘What’s happened to Simon?’
‘He’s been attacked.’
Georgie lets out a little scream. Harbinder says quickly, ‘He’s in hospital. He’s going to be OK.’
I sit next to Georgie and put my arm round her. ‘What do you mean “attacked”?’
‘Someone waited for Simon outside his office and stabbed him. He must have managed to shout out because some passers-by came to help and the attacker ran off.’
‘Stabbed.’ I think of Rick and the knife in his chest. Of Harbinder telling me about Ella’s murder. ‘She was stabbed. Multiple times.’
‘It could be a random attack,’ says Harbinder. ‘Knife crime is a real problem in London. But we can’t ignore the link to you.’
‘Do you think it’s the same person who killed Miss Elphick and Mr Lewis?’ says Georgie.
Neil comes into the room with two mugs of tea which he places carefully in front of us. Harbinder says, ‘Can I have a word in private, Clare?’
‘No,’ says Georgie, in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘I’ve got a right to know what’s going on.’
Harbinder and Neil exchange glances. ‘Clare,’ says Harbinder, ‘can I look at your diary?’
‘I gave them all to you,’ I say.
‘I’m sure you’ve started another one.’
I think of the Reporter’s Pad, upstairs in my bedside table. She’s right, of course.
‘What’s she talking about, mum?’ says Georgie. ‘What diary?’
‘It’s nothing important,’ I say.
‘Can I see it please?’ says Harbinder.
Herbert follows me upstairs as if we’re going on a jaunt. The book is lying on the empty side of my bed. The side I don’t sleep on. The side that was Simon’s. I can’t remember if that’s where I left it.
I open it at my last entry.
Simon, though. I will never, ever let Simon take my daughter away from me. I can’t believe that I ever loved him. Sometimes it feels as if my life started to go wrong the day I met him.
Underneath it, the italic hand has written, ‘Leave it to me.’
Clare’s Diary
Friday 24th November
We’re on the train to Inverness. The Caledonian Sleeper. It all seems so unreal. Yesterday I was taking a rehearsal of LSOH, looking forward to the weekend ahead. Now, Tony is having to find yet another supply teacher and Georgie and I are on our way to Ullapool. Harbinder organised it all, right down to this ‘club room’ with bunk beds and compli
mentary ‘sleep pack’. It’s a tiny space but surprisingly comfortable, with crisp white sheets and a table that folds up to become a sink. Georgie is lying on the top bunk listening to a podcast and I’m on the bottom bunk writing this on my phone. Herbert’s with us too, taking up almost all of the floor space but behaving impeccably, as if hurtling through the night on an express train is an everyday occurrence. England is sliding past in the dark. When we wake up, we’ll be in Scotland.
Spoke to Simon earlier. He’s still in hospital but not critical. He sounded more irritated (peeved is probably the word) than anything. ‘The police think that this is linked to those murders of yours.’ Of mine! The police think that the killer was probably disturbed in the middle of attacking Simon, which is why he got away comparatively lightly with wounds to his chest and arm. I’m sure Simon doesn’t think that he got away lightly at all. I’m sure he blames me for everything.
I can’t wait to be with Gran again. I suppose she represents security to me, far more than my parents do. And, in Scotland, miles away from the school, from R.M. Holland, from the stranger who writes in my diaries, surely we will be safe.
Well, today’s the anniversary of that day and I’m the only one left. What a strange thought that is, my dear young man. I am sure that your lively brain has long since recognised the pattern that is unfolding here and the inauspiciousness of the date. Why is he telling me this story? you must wonder. Have I been chosen to witness the demise of the narrator?
But do not fear. After all, I am not about to go up in a hot air balloon or attempt to drive a coach and pair across the fens. I can’t plummet from the air or be dragged by footpads from my carriage.
I am in a train, it’s true, but I’m not about to leave this carriage.
Part the eighth
Harbinder
Chapter 40
I didn’t relax until I had seen Clare and Georgia onto the train. They stood there looking, despite Clare’s designer red coat, like refugees or displaced persons. Georgia was in a parka and woolly hat, a backpack hunching her shoulders. Clare had Herbert, complete with his own little red coat, on a lead. I’d checked that dogs were allowed on the sleeper. It’s really a very civilised journey. Leave Euston at nine, have dinner on the train, go to sleep in your room and wake up in Scotland. I felt quite envious, to be honest.
I had travelled up to London first thing in the morning for a conference with the Met. The SIO, DI Steve Hollings, said that Simon Newton had been attacked as he left his office near Holborn. It’s in a mews and, of course, there’s no CCTV. But Simon must have shouted and raised the alarm because the assailant ran off after only stabbing him a couple of times. Two commuters on their way to the tube heard the commotion and came to help. They found Simon scrabbling at the door of his office, trying to get back in. He was bleeding heavily but still conscious. No sign of the assailant. I think it’s our man. The weapon is the same type, a sharpened kitchen knife, dropped at the scene and clean of prints. And the attack seems similar — the opportunism, the savagery, the speed of escape.
‘You think it’s your guy?’ said Hollings.
‘The modus looks the same and all the victims have links to the same woman.’
‘I hope she’s got a good alibi,’ said Hollings, standing and stretching. He was the type that doesn’t stay still for long. I was willing to bet that he wore a Fitbit.
‘She has,’ I said. And that was true. When Simon had been attacked, Clare had been overseeing a rehearsal at Talgarth, in the same feet-scented gym/theatre where we used to put on plays in my day. Not that I was ever in a play. I think Gary was, though.
I left Holborn Police Station and walked to University College Hospital to interview Simon. He wasn’t looking his best — which was hardly surprising — but it’s difficult to know what Clare ever saw in him. He was a colourless man, slightly built, with receding hair and a rather petulant expression. However, as I said, that could be something to do with his present predicament.
‘I’m DS Harbinder Kaur,’ I said. ‘I’m investigating the murders of Ella Elphick and Rick Lewis.’
‘Clare’s talked about you,’ said Simon. He had a Northern accent, which I hadn’t expected.
‘She’s talked about you too,’ I said.
‘I bet she has.’ He shifted awkwardly in the bed. His chest and one arm were wrapped in bandages and he had cuts and bruises on his face. He scratched his nose with his free hand.
‘Do you really think it’s connected?’ he said. ‘That the man who stabbed me was the person who killed the teachers at Clare’s school?’
‘We’re investigating that possibility,’ I said carefully. ‘Can you tell us anything about the attacker?’
‘Not really,’ said Simon. ‘It was dark and happened so suddenly. I’d just left the building and I was checking my phone and he leaped on me.’
‘You’re sure it was a man?’
He thought for a second. ‘Yeah. He was big, heavily built. He knocked me flying.’
‘How tall would you say?’
‘Tall, taller than me. Not that that’s hard.’
We’d obviously struck a nerve. Simon was not small. It was hard to tell with him lying down but I’d estimate five-nine. In heels, Clare would be taller.
‘Did you see his face?’
‘No.’
‘Was he masked?’
‘I’m not sure. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But I’m sure I didn’t see his face. He was either hooded or masked.’
‘It’s quite normal not to be able to recall your assailant’s face,’ I said. Normal but annoying. ‘Maybe in a few days something will come back to you. Did you notice his shoes?’
‘His shoes?’
‘Yes. I always notice shoes.’
‘I don’t,’ said Simon. ‘I think he was wearing a dark coat, one of those waterproof ones with a shell.’
This would fit with the material found at Ella’s house.
‘Did he speak?’ I asked.
‘No.’ Simon shuddered. ‘That was what was so awful. He just leaped on me with no words. Like an animal.’
Like an animal. Like a ravening beast. I asked a few more questions but the nurses were hovering and Simon was obviously getting tired. As I stood up to leave, he said, ‘What about Clare and Georgie? I mean, they must be in danger. Are you looking after them?’
‘They’re going to Clare’s grandmother in Scotland,’ I said. ‘I’ve booked them on the sleeper train tonight.’
‘Ah, the Scottish granny,’ said Simon, lying back on his pillows. ‘Clare loves it there. I’m surprised you got her to take time off work.’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ I said. ‘But we can’t take any risks.’
‘Look after them,’ said Simon, closing his eyes.
‘I will.’
On the way out, I saw a woman with two children getting out of the lift. She was mixed-race, extremely striking, with great hair in an afro. I felt sure that this was wife number two. What on earth had attracted two gorgeous women to this insignificant-looking man? Heterosexuals are a mystery sometimes.
I went back to Holborn to look at the scene of the crime. The mews was still cordoned off but there was nothing really to see. Plenty of places where the assailant could have hidden: behind the dustbins, in the shadow of the next building. The Good Samaritans hadn’t seen him because they were, quite rightly, concentrating on Simon as he lay bleeding on the steps. There was still a bloodstain on the lowest one.
I was slightly at a loose end after that. Neil was driving Clare up to catch the train and I was going to meet them at Euston at eight. I really needed a place where I could sit down and gather my thoughts. We had so much: DNA, handwriting, murder weapon. Why weren’t we any closer to finding this person? I walked down High Holborn and Chancery Lane onto the Strand. The shops were already full of Christmas stuff; Santa
s and reindeer and shiny baubles. It was only a month away. My parents celebrated Christmas as enthusiastically as any Christian and the house would be full of family eating, drinking and watching crap on the TV. I only hoped we had found our killer by then, otherwise I would be in a filthy mood.
Eventually, after drinking too much coffee in various Costas, I ended up in Charing Cross library. Libraries are wonderful places. You can just sit there with a book for hours and nobody bothers you. Charing Cross was full of Chinese students and elderly people reading the papers; one or two of them looked like they might be homeless. I settled down in a corner to go through my notes. I started one of my lists, much derided by Neil.
Possible suspects
1.Clare Cassidy
For: May have resented Ella (re: job and Rick). Disliked Rick for stalking her. Discovered R’s body. Only person with any link to Simon Newton.
Against: Alibis (though weak) for both. Alibi for Simon. The handwriting in her diary (if it isn’t hers).
2.Patrick O’Leary
For: had strong feelings for Ella and disliked Rick. Seen outside Ella’s house on the night of her murder. Weak alibi for Rick.
The Stranger Diaries Page 26
