Windsor Red

by Jennie Melville

  ‘I might just do that,’ said Anny, with energy. ‘ That would surprise you.’

  ‘No,’ Charmian shook her head. ‘No more than it would surprise you if I came too.’

  Their eyes met, and they began to laugh.

  Thank God, thought Charmian, I have broken her mood.

  They had been friends for such a long while, and trusted each other and told each other secrets, so that now there was no need for telling, they could read each other well.

  Charmian knew that the dreamy drunken Jack suited her friend who would never leave him, but that her strongest emotions were first for her work and then for her child; Jack came third. Still, he was on the list and perhaps that was enough for him or perhaps it never had been and that was why he drank.

  Anny knew that there was a hole inside Charmian that needed filling and that if Humphrey did not fill it then someone disastrous would and she was on guard against that person.

  One of the things that marked this strange time for Charmian was the way she was split right down the middle.

  On the one hand was her developing relationship with the Girls, getting weirder all the time as they treated her as something between a tame cat and a guru.

  On the other hand, the way she had settled into the community of the Yard. She liked it so well there that she was even considering whether she could live there permanently when she took up her new job in London. She would be able to joke that she worked in one Yard and lived in another.

  If she stayed, she would have to get a telephone put in.

  She thought that as she walked into the theatre where she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Jerome had washed and cut her hair that morning, the appointment arranged on Anny’s telephone, one didn’t just walk in on Jerome; he had done it beautifully but differently, so that it was like looking at a stranger with a familiar face.

  She stopped for a minute. No, now she knew what it was. He had brought back that gawky, shy girl with reddish hair who had come down from Scotland to conquer the world.

  Anny had put her head round the door as she sat in Jerome’s having her hair finger-dried while he talked. ‘I tried hair-dressing when my wife died,’ he was saying. ‘ Took a diploma but I decided to change to something where I could stay at home and keep Keith with me. I can turn my hand to most things, done most things too.’ He grinned at her. ‘Master of none.’ Keith was sitting at the table crayoning a picture book. His father looked at him proudly. ‘Advanced for his age, isn’t he? I don’t let anyone do anything for him but me. Elspeth is always offering, but I prefer not. No, she’s away today, not sick, getting ready for her husband coming back, I expect. She’s a pesky little creature sometimes, but very trustworthy with Keith. Of course, as you can imagine, I’m not letting him out of my sight at the moment, with that poor little Robertson kid going missing.’ He moved Charmian’s head gently so that he could see the shape he was creating. ‘Funny old world, isn’t it? Yesterday we had the police all over the place and now it’s gone dead quiet.’

  But police work was like that, as Charmian very well knew, the appearance of quiet being deceptive because a lot of dull, routine checking would now be taking place from which the truth might, with luck, eventually emerge.

  From the door, Anny said: ‘ Tonight?’

  ‘Tonight,’ agreed Charmian.

  Jerome raised his eyebrows. ‘Going on the town? Blazers is the best night spot round here.’ Wouldn’t mind taking her there myself: after all, I’m still a man, not only a father; he lowered his eyes, letting his thoughts roll on.

  ‘Just an expedition we’re taking,’ said Charmian.

  Jerome had given his attractive half smile and with a snip of his scissors had lightened her hair and her looks.

  Now she smoothed her hair in the big mirror while she looked around for the Gang.

  Then she saw Nix and Laraine standing together by the entrance. Nix gave a little wave. ‘We’re in the bar. Coffee and sandwiches only, because the bar isn’t serving anything else, but you may find a little something extra in the cup.’

  Following them down the stairs to the bar Charmian allowed herself another mild wonder at the source of Nix’s high spirits. Possibly they were self-manufactured again, a natural byproduct of her body’s metabolism, and if so she was a lucky lady. In Charmian’s experience, depression was what women more often got from their body’s swings and balances.

  Something else to consider was the source of the mild prosperity that suffused the group, from Laraine’s smart expensive trouser-suit to Yvonne King staring happily at a pair of new shoes. In her opinion they were getting money from somewhere.

  ‘Hello,’ said Baby softly. She had an empty cup by her and on her face a smile that stayed in place. It did not waver as she stood there, although she herself, very faintly, did. Whatever had been mixed with the coffee had been strong. She took a sip of her own and let it rest on her tongue. Brandy, and plenty of it.

  Baby took a step backwards and sank down on a banquette of red plush. ‘I haven’t got a very strong head,’ she said modestly.

  Charmian sat down beside her, cup in hand.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ said Baby in a soft voice.

  ‘Of whom?’

  ‘Of them, of course.’ She gave a quick look at the group still at the bar, Nix standing by Laraine, a head and shoulders the taller, with Yvonne King, Rebecca Amos, Betty Dedman and Elsie Hogan slightly apart. As no doubt they felt themselves to be, for Laraine and Nix were certainly the leaders. Between those two there might yet be rivalry, but at the moment all was harmony.

  ‘Your hair is lovely,’ said Baby, still keeping her voice down. ‘And I ought to know. Takes years off you. Who did it?’

  ‘I had it done this morning. Jerome in the Yard.’

  ‘He did a good job.’

  Nix called across from the bar: ‘What are you two talking about?’

  ‘Hair,’ said Baby. Quickly.

  ‘No secrets now,’ and Nix turned back to her band of friends. ‘See what I mean?’ muttered Baby. ‘Checking. Don’t blame her, but doing it.’

  ‘Why are you frightened?’

  ‘Because of what they’d do to me if I wasn’t loyal.’

  ‘But you are loyal.’

  ‘If I wasn’t.’

  Charmian considered; she knew what Baby was doing. What she so often did: putting herself in the right position to escape. In her life she had made several escapes from tricky situations. Self-preservation was built into Baby as into a cat. She still had most of her nine lives left.

  ‘I’ll look after you,’ Charmian said. To herself, she added: If I can.

  She got up and went to the bar. Betty, Elsie and Yvonne were standing together. Betty spoke up as she approached, her tone aggressive. She was an aggressive woman, Charmian had noticed it before.

  ‘You’re writing a book about us.’ Charmian made a demurring noise: not exactly a book, a study. ‘I could write a book myself if I wanted. Plenty to say, but I haven’t got time. Yvonne here wants to talk to you. She’s never been able to write, well, not really. Do her name naturally, but not what you call communicate. Can’t read much either, can you, Von? No, it’s held her back. She feels she’d have got on a lot better if she’d been able to write. Letters home, that sort of thing. That’s it, isn’t it, Von?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Yvonne, as if speech too was something that she found hard to come by. ‘ I could write to my children if I knew how to write and if I knew where they are. Could you help me?’ she looked down at her shoes, sadly. ‘And I don’t think these shoes are any too good a fit, either.’

  Nix tucked her arm confidently under Charmian’s elbow as they trooped in to their seats. ‘We’ve all got lots of questions to ask you. You’re going to be so useful to us.’ Charmian saw she was quite in earnest. ‘Yes, as a woman. You can tell us things. Oh, I don’t mean about sex and such, we could probably give you some hints there.’ She giggled. ‘But about our rights as women, and what we
can do to protect ourselves. I don’t reckon we’ve ever had any help on that.’

  The sad thing was she was quite right.

  By the end of the afternoon the strangeness of the little group and of her place in it was so overwhelming that she felt suffocated. It was a physical thing, which she could not deny She was both attracted and pushing away at the same time, almost like a love affair that had gone wrong.

  Baby was quite right to feel fear. Together, this group was stronger by far than any of its parts, a corporate animal with a power of its own. An animal that at this moment trusted her but might at any time spring forward showing its teeth.

  And what was this strange animal about to do? Why had it drawn itself together? To what end and for what purpose? Because it had one, of that she was sure.

  Coming out of the theatre, while receiving their thanks for the amusement (Nix’s ambiguous word), she made appointments to see Yvonne, and then Betty, Elsie and Rebecca separately in their own places. This was a step forward. You could tell so much from home territory. They were all very territorial animals, these women; part of their criminality rather than their femininity, perhaps. It was interesting, these three women were allowing her in. Nix and Laraine had not. For them, she would have to wait.

  ‘You don’t mind me digging?’ she asked Nix.

  Nix consulted Laraine with her eyes. ‘No, we don’t mind.’

  Which was true, they seemed to be enjoying the digging into their lives.

  And that was strange, although in Nix’s bold stare and Laraine’s pale gaze she read duplicity.

  Perhaps she was getting a reflection of her own eyes back.

  That evening another limb was found in a black plastic sack.

  This sack was found by a couple of municipal workmen among a heap of rubbish on the town tip on the road towards Slough.

  The leg inside had belonged to a man.

  They reported it to their foreman who at once telephoned the police. Then they sat waiting.

  It was raining in Ealing. Charmian sighed for a moment about her freshly arranged hair. ‘Am I doing this to satisfy you?’ she asked Anny. ‘Or are you doing it to satisfy me?’

  ‘Your idea, remember.’ Anny had a headscarf and a raincoat on, she had thought about the weather. Or did she just need to be shrouded? It was certainly hard to see her face.

  They were standing at the corner of Belvedere Crescent, a row of Edwardian villas which had gone down in the world without starting to rise like some of its neighbours. Charmian felt that the scales had gone too far one way and might never come up again. The demolition gangs and the developers could not be far away. Many of the houses stood in need of redecoration while even those which had received it had been done over in bold, garish colours like cobalt blue and scarlet which ill became their seedy old age. The kerbs were lined with cars, all old, as far as she could see, with no new registrations among them. Her professional eye never failed to register this kind of fact.

  ‘Long time since you’ve done this kind of police work,’ said Anny. She leaned against a wall and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Can you work out which house it is?’

  ‘It has to be the one the plainclothes man is watching.’

  ‘I don’t see him.’ Anny was surprised.

  ‘He’s the one sitting in the van reading a paper.

  ‘I thought he was a workman skiving.’

  The two women moved quietly down the street to where they could get a better view.

  ‘There’s a man in that yellow car,’ said Anny.

  ‘He’s probably a journalist, hanging around to see if anything breaks.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I’m just guessing.’ But she knew she was right: you develop a sense on these things.

  ‘Aren’t there any real people? No genuine inhabitants around?’

  ‘Not out in the rain.’

  But there was an unreality to the street, it felt like a film set to Charmian’s sharpened perceptions. Anny had picked up this feeling without recognising it.

  Anny said sharply: ‘There’s someone at the window. I saw the curtain move.’

  Charmian had seen it too, a face looking out, then moving back. ‘Did you recognise anyone?’

  ‘I can’t be sure.’ Anny looked worried. ‘I don’t know. I hardly got a look. It could be Kate.’

  ‘It was a woman then?’

  ‘I think so. Didn’t you see?’

  Charmian said slowly: ‘ No. Nothing to identify. Sorry, Anny.’

  Anny was determined. ‘I’m not giving up.’

  A uniformed constable was coming towards them from the corner. He was wearing a raincape and pushing his bike. Charmian was totally unsurprised by his appearance; she had expected someone to turn up. They were watching but they would also be watched.

  Anny became aware of his approach at the same time. She waited silently, as he came up.

  ‘Good evening, madam. Is there any trouble? Anything I can do?’

  ‘It’s my child,’ said Anny. ‘ I think my daughter is in that house.’

  ‘Have you any reason to think so, madam?’ He was a careful young man, and his speech showed it.

  Anny was silent.

  Charmian intervened: ‘Her daughter is missing. We just came to look. Thought we might get a glimpse of a face.’

  ‘A couple in there, but we don’t have an identity for them. Squatters. I doubt if it is your daughter.’ He was kind and sceptical.

  Anny said, ‘I’m going to ring the bell.’

  ‘You could ring, madam, but I wouldn’t advise it. Our information is that any interference might trigger off trouble. We’re letting it simmer.’

  This time they all noticed a curtain at an upper window move. This time there was nothing but a hand to see.

  ‘What do you think?’ Anny asked as they drove away. ‘Is it Kate? Could it be?’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it. No, I think not Kate, if you want my real opinion. I don’t know where Kate is.’ After a while, Charmian said: ‘ Does Kate have any friends in Windsor?’

  ‘She hasn’t been around much to make any. She has one, a girl she knew at school who is working here, a young doctor. Amanda Rivers.

  ‘I might try talking to her,’ said Charmian. ‘Or you could.’

  They drove back to Wellington Yard in silence.

  ‘Your poor hair,’ said Anny, as they parked.

  ‘Never mind. I can have another session with Jerome.’ And that looked like being the best thing to have come out of the day. Later, sitting in her bath, watched at a safe distance by Muff, Charmian decided she was looking forward to the prospect.

  When she emerged from the bath, she found another note from Harold English pushed under the door.

  He must have a secret messenger, she decided irritably. Somehow these silent deliveries invaded her privacy.

  He wrote: Your group of subjects have a contact. One Joseph Delaney, an Irishman, now living in South London. He has a record. Details attached. He may be an IRA sympathiser, but basically he will do anything for money.

  The girls had a light meal at the Pizza Parlour after the theatre and then split up; they seemed to feel no desire to stay together. Nix scratched herself vigorously as she walked towards the bus stop. ‘I hope I haven’t got chicken-pox,’ she said to Laraine. ‘That really would bugger things up.’

  Laraine did not answer. In her opinion it would make no difference at all to their plans.

  But if anyone got chicken-pox she hoped it was Charmian. It would have amused her.

  While all these separate activities had been going on, the police team searching the town tip in the rain came across another limb, once again inside a black plastic sack. This leg belonged to a woman.

  Chapter Six

  THE LOCAL POLICE , always loaded with plenty of responsibility because of Windsor being what it was, the home of sovereigns, and the second calling place after the Tower of London on every tourist coach trip, no
w felt they had more than their share.

  As usual there were the customary summer cases of cars stolen, tourists robbed, and houses being broken into. A variation this year was the way the luggage was disappearing from parked coaches. They had never had this before and it was causing concern. Locking the coaches seemed to make no difference: the luggage continued to melt away. In addition, they were having trouble with a small group of adolescent glue sniffers who were making a nuisance of themselves. The youngsters congregated in a church on the outskirts of the town where they frightened the old ladies who were in the habit of using a path through the churchyard as a short cut into town. Also there was a long-running investigation into a series of poisonings in an outer estate. The estate was a smart one with expensive houses lived in by bright, up and coming young couples. No one had died, but some people were unpleasantly ill, and the police could not get to the bottom of it. In time they would, because they had a hunch who was behind it, but that was about as much as they could say at the moment. Which did not satisfy the press.

  But over and above all these crimes, they had the puzzle of the stolen babies, who were usually gone a couple of days and then returned, as if they had done their job. If babies can be said to have a job. The Robertson baby was still missing and the police were getting worried. His three days were up, and if he was going to come back then it was time he did.

  And finally, there was the mystery of the severed limbs found in the sack in Wellington Yard, which they could now match up with the legs found on the rubbish dump. This was a nasty one, giving no pleasure to anyone except the press who were finding it useful at a time of dull news. (Except for the poisonings on the Blossom Hill estate, which had temporarily ceased.) They were pressing the police, who had nothing much to tell them. So far, the heads, arms and trunks of the dismembered man and woman had not been found. With any luck, these would turn up elsewhere and outside their patch, which would mean it was someone else’s problem.

  Meanwhile the four specimens were giving work to the police pathologists and forensic experts.