“Well, that’s Angie for you. Good Protestant work ethic,” Dylan said.
Bronwyn tapped her foot. “So, what will it be, boys?”
“A pot of tea and a slice of Battenberg, please,” Jock said.
Dylan patted his tummy. “Nothing for me, thanks. Got to think of my figure.”
Jock rolled his eyes.
“Hmm, what blend is that?” Dylan asked when she returned with the tea.
“Just the normal Yorkshire,” Bronwyn said, setting it down.
“Are you sure? It smells like heaven.”
“Dylan, do you want a cup?” Jock asked.
“Well, if you insist.”
Dylan poured some tea into Jock’s cup and took a sip.
“I’ll get another cup then,” Jock sighed.
He noticed an old lady staring into her tea cup. He had seen her before. She had struck him as a lively lady, the kind who refused to retire quietly. But there was no sparkle in her today. Her coiffured hair was less than immaculate and her face was bare of its usual make-up.
“That’s Simon’s mum,” Bronwyn told him, as she handed him his cup.
No wonder she looked so wretched. He returned to his table and listened to Dylan rabbit on about Minecraft while he ate his cake. It was almost eleven and he hadn’t even opened his laptop yet. Perhaps he should go somewhere a little quieter, where he could concentrate. He caught Bronwyn’s eye. “Can I have the bill, please?”
Bronwyn nodded and scuttled off, but another ten minutes passed and she still hadn’t brought it. Morgan was around, but he wasn’t in the mood to deal with her. You never knew whether you were going to get friendly Morgan or moody Morgan. He decided it would be easier to go up to the counter. Dylan trailed after him, caught up in the middle of a long anecdote about a Playboy bunny and a bullfrog.
Jock sniffed. “Can you smell that?”
Instead of answering, Dylan barged through the tassel curtain that led to the kitchen.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to go in there,” Jock called after him.
He watched as Dylan grabbed a pair of oven gloves and pulled a tray out of the oven.
“Bloody Nora!” came Angie’s voice. “I knew I should have left the baking to Bronwyn!”
“Can I have them?” Dylan asked. “I’m sure they’ll be fine if I cut the tops off.”
“Help yourself.” Angie let out a strangled sob.
“What’s up?” Dylan asked.
“What do you think?” she hissed, her voice a little too loud. “He spent the night in a cell, Dylan, and they still won’t let him go. How could they possibly think it was Simon? He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“Well, they must think they’ve got something on him,” Dylan said. “But whatever it is, it’s not enough. Otherwise they would have charged him by now.”
“Of course they haven’t got anything on him!” she snapped. “He hasn’t done anything! They’re just picking on him because he’s big and he doesn’t have an alibi.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Dylan said, a bit too loudly. “There must be some other evidence that’s led them to this.”
“Dylan!” Jock tried to warn him, but it was too late; Simon’s mum was right next to Jock at the counter, trying to see into the kitchen.
“You think my Simon did it?” Her voice crackled a little as she spoke.
Dylan peered out of the kitchen. “No, that’s not what I said.”
Simon’s mum shuffled towards him, wobbling precariously on her walking stick.
“Let me tell you something about Simon,” she said. “It’s not easy for him, being his size. All his life, he’s had people point fingers at him, calling him a freak. And now the police think they can pin this on him, too. Well, it isn’t right!”
“Verity,” Angie said, soothingly, stepping through the curtains to get to her but the outburst seemed to be too much for the old lady. She leaned heavily against the wall and then sank to the floor, her mouth quivering and her eyes half closed.
11
“She’s breathing,” Dylan said, kneeling down beside her. “But we need to get her to hospital. Come on, we’ll take my car.”
“I don’t think you should be driving,” Jock objected. “Not after the skinful you had last night.”
“What? I’m fine.”
“No, he’s right,” Angie said. “You drive, Jock.”
Jock reddened. “I can’t. I haven’t passed my test.”
“Right, I’m ringing 999.”
Verity pulled herself up into a sitting position. “I’m fine. Really. Just help me up, will you?”
“So … Should I call an ambulance?” Jock asked, as he helped her into a chair.
“Don’t be silly, dear. I told you, I’m fine.” She dusted off her skirt as if nothing had happened. “You really think my Simon is guilty?” she asked Dylan, her voice shaking with anger.
“Of course not,” Dylan said.
Jock believed him. He wouldn’t lie, not even to appease an old lady.
“Then why are they holding him so long?” She looked at each of them in turn, as if expecting them to provide an answer.
A couple of journalists murmured conspiratorially.
“Let’s take this into the kitchen,” Angie murmured.
Verity grabbed Jock’s arm to steady herself as they walked through. Jock squirmed with embarrassment, but he couldn’t very well refuse.
The kitchen smelt of charcoal, mingled with chocolate chips. Angie indicated a chair in the corner for Verity, but she continued to cling to Jock, until he couldn’t stand it another minute.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words spilling from his mouth before he even knew what he was going to say. “I’m late for … an appointment. I really have to go.”
Dylan shook his head as he pulled himself from Verity’s grasp. Jock knew he was being a wimp, but he felt like he couldn’t get enough air. He had to get outside.
Why hadn’t they replaced that stupid doorbell? Gertrude wondered, as she went to answer it. It made the most irritating noise. She wanted to punch it. She opened the door and immediately regretted it.
“Hello, Fiona Hinklebury, Department for Work and Pensions.”
Fiona’s ready-made smile probably came free with her sensible, navy blue suit.
“Yes, we’ve met before,” Gertrude said, trying to smooth the worry lines from her forehead. “Should we be expecting you?”
“I made the appointment with your mother last week. Didn’t she mention it?”
“No.”
Fiona looked past Gertrude, into the immaculately clean hallway. “Is your mother in?”
Reluctantly, she led Fiona through to the lounge, where her mother was drinking tea in front of Emmerdale.
“Mum, this is Fiona–”
“Yes, yes, I know. Come on in. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Not for me, thanks.” Fiona smiled pleasantly and perched her bony bottom on the sofa. “You don’t mind if I ask you a few questions, Maureen? Just to see how you’re doing.”
Gertrude hovered in the doorway, trying to see her mother as Fiona must have seen her, sitting so calmly in her armchair, neatly dressed and washed. Where had Fiona been an hour ago, when she was screaming at the yoghurts in Tesco?
“What do you want to know?” she asked, taking a seat in between her mother and Fiona.
“Actually, I think I would like that cup of tea after all,” Fiona said.
Her mum smiled at her. “Gertrude, would you be a dear?”
“Er … yes, of course.”
“She is a gem,” she heard her mother say, as she left the room. “But she does insist on doing things for me and it’s really not necessary. She should be out living her own life, don’t you agree?”
Rage rippled inside Gertrude. She tapped her foot as the kettle boiled, the noise drowning out the conversation in the living room. What to do? What to do? She seized her phone and texted Claire:
‘DWP are h
ere. Mum acting normal. HELP!’
She kept glancing at the phone but Claire didn’t text back. She was probably in the middle of a class, instructing a dozen or so tiny tots on how to point their toes. Just before the kettle reached boiling point, she took it off the heat and slopped the water into a cup. She didn’t even use real tea leaves, just dunked a teabag into the mug and showed it some milk.
“Here,” she said, setting it down on the coffee table.
“Thank you,” said Fiona. “Do you have any sugar?”
She stalked back to the kitchen. While she rummaged around in the cupboard, her phone beeped:
‘Show them the utility room!’
She smiled. Claire was good.
“So your mother’s been telling me she’s feeling much better,” Fiona said when Gertrude returned with the sugar. “Perhaps it’s time for her to take the first steps back to work?”
“No way! That’s ridiculous!” Gertrude said, ignoring the hurt look on her mother’s face. If the situation weren’t so horrendous, she would have laughed.
“Wouldn’t you like to re-enter the workplace yourself, Gertrude?” Fiona consulted her notes. “It says here you’ve–”
“Never worked,” Gertrude said. “How can I when Mum needs a full-time carer?”
Fiona screwed up her forehead. “But if your mother is getting better…”
“She is not getting better,” Gertrude said, through clenched teeth. “She’s always had lucid days. But it never lasts. Then we’re back to the same old pattern: cleaning the house for hours on end; refusing to eat or drink to the extent that I’ve had to take her to A&E; and have you seen what she’s done to the utility room? Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Well, I…”
Reluctantly, Fiona followed her across the hall. Gertrude pulled open the utility room door and her jaw dropped in shock. The walls were completely bare and the room whiffed of fresh paint. Golden magnolia, to be precise.
“When did you do this?” she gasped, turning to look at her mum, who had followed them.
“When you were out.”
“But I never go out!”
“Oh, come on. Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not. You must have done it in the night! Where did you even get the paint?”
Her mother smiled, as if this were all completely normal. “I just wanted it to be a surprise, dear. It was getting so tatty in here.”
“Where are the washing machine and dryer?”
“I just popped them outside. Don’t worry, I’ll put everything back once the walls are dry.”
“But how? Those machines weigh a ton.”
“Oh, they weren’t that bad.”
Gertrude shook her head. If the DWP needed evidence that her mother was bonkers, surely this was it.
“You see, there’s no knowing what she might do from one minute to the next,” she explained to Fiona in the corridor. “She might be right as rain one minute, but completely barking the next.”
“Tell me, Gertrude,” Fiona said, quietly. “Is your father still in the picture?”
Gertrude snorted. “He’s not even in the country, as far as I know. It’s just the three of us. Has been for a while.”
“I see, well, thanks for the tea.” She edged towards the door. “I’ll be in touch about the next step.”
“What next step?”
“The next step in getting you and your mother back to work.” She attempted a friendly smile. “Don’t look so worried, Gertrude. You’ll both get plenty of help. We can assist you with everything from CV writing, to interview technique. We can even help you find something decent to wear, if you’d like.” She cast an uncomfortable eye over her shapeless tent dress and worn, beige slippers. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine!”
The moment she was out the door, Gertrude picked up her tea cup and hurled it at the wall. She watched with satisfaction as it smashed to pieces. She didn’t even care when she cut her finger cleaning it up. In fact, it felt kind of good.
By the time Claire got home, she had everything under control. The floor was freshly swept and mopped and all evidence of the broken cup had been hidden in the outside bin. Shame it had been one of her father’s cups, but hopefully Claire wouldn’t miss it.
“Hello?” Claire called, as she pulled off her coat and shoes.
“In the kitchen,” Gertrude called back. She was about to launch into a description of her encounter with Fiona Hinklebury, when she realised Claire had a friend in tow.
“Oh! Hi, Gaby.”
“Hi, Gertrude. How are you?”
She smiled. Of all Claire’s friends, Gaby was probably the nicest, even if her fashion sense was a little over the top.
“Fine thanks,” she said, pulling off her marigolds.
“How’s your mum?” Gaby asked in a low tone. “Claire said she was doing a bit better?”
“Ah, not too bad at the moment. A bit up and down; you know how it is.”
Gaby nodded. But she didn’t really know. How could she?
“So tell me your news,” Claire said, as she and Gaby settled at the kitchen table with steaming hot mugs of hot chocolate. Gertrude lingered nearby, pretending to busy herself with the dishwasher. She wanted to sit with them and join in their chit-chat, but she didn’t quite know how.
Gaby’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve been nominated for May Queen!” she squealed.
“May Queen?” Claire said, absently. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”
Gaby laughed. “Who are you calling old? I’m a year younger than you!”
Claire smiled. “I know. I just thought, you know, it was for schoolgirls or something?”
“Well it’s not. There’s no age limit.”
Gertrude caught the look on Claire’s face. Her eyes narrowed and the smile froze on her lips. Claire wanted to be May Queen. She had just made up her mind. And what Claire wanted, Claire got.
Jock spent the afternoon in Fleckford Library. He had always loved libraries; there was something incredibly soothing about the combination of dust and mildew that hung in the air. He opened his laptop and read over what he had written the day before, but every time he started to get into the story, Sapphire would drift into his consciousness. It was no good. He put his work aside and started scrolling through old newspapers. He wanted to read everything he could get his hands on about Peter Helston, the so-called May Queen Killer. Several books had been written about him, detailing everything, from his apparently ordinary life as a family man and academic, to his arrest and subsequent confession. None of his friends or family had suspected him. No one had come forward to say they had always had their suspicions. Quite the opposite; friend after friend had said how shocked they were. Many were convinced of his innocence – none more than his wife, Daphne.
After confessing to the murders, Peter had promised to reveal the burial place of the missing May Queens. But on the morning he was due to lead the police to their final resting place, he was found dead – hanged in his cell. The official story was that he had killed himself, but there were numerous conspiracy theorists who contended otherwise.
Jock was just about to take a break when he discovered a documentary, which had aired after the last May Queen had disappeared. It included emotional interviews with the May Queen’s family and friends, some of which were really hard to watch. His eyes welled up as he watched an interview with Claire Scutter’s older sister, Gertrude.
“My sister had big plans,” she said, barely able to control the pain in her voice. “She was about to open a ballet school here in Whiteford. She wanted to teach a new generation of children how to dance. She also wanted to travel and maybe one day get married and start a family. The May Queen Killer took so much away from us, more than just Claire. Our lives will never be normal again.”
Jock swallowed a lump. Gertrude’s speech really resonated with him. If he didn’t find Sapphire, he would never know what kind of future they might have had. And he would spend the rest of his life
wondering.
“The library’s closing in fifteen minutes,” the librarian called out. She walked around the tables, picking up discarded books and placing them back on the shelves.
“Just a minute,” Jock murmured, staring at the screen in front of him. He felt like an idiot for not realising it before. Here he was, investigating the May Queen disappearances and he had missed something bleeding obvious.
12
“You’ll have to go to the National Archives in Kew,” the librarian told him, after he had explained what he was looking for. “You can’t get that information online.”
“Kew?” Jock pulled a face. The last thing he fancied was a trek back to London.
He went outside and rang Robbie. Luckily, the library was at the top of a hill, which meant that he could get a signal.
“Listen,” he said, “I need a favour. Can you to pop down to the National Archives for me?”
“Right-ho,” said Robbie. He was a student, after all, so it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. “Have you called your mum yet?” he asked.
Jock ran his tongue around the roof of his mouth. “I’ve been busy.”
“She’s really worried because you haven’t updated your Facebook.”
“That’s because she’s always bloody stalking me,” Jock said. “I’ve had enough of it. I’m thirty, for Pete’s sake.”
“Hey, it’s none of my business,” said Robbie. “But couldn’t you send her a postcard? She can’t very well reply to a postcard, can she?”
“Are you kidding? She can trace me from a postcard. She’d be on my doorstep within the hour. Just tell her I’ve been in touch, will you?”
“Right-ho.”
“You heard they let Simon go?” Dylan asked in the Dragon later.
“No? When did this happen?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“So they didn’t charge him with anything?”
“No. He’s a free man. Told you he didn’t do it.”
The Perfect Girl Page 8
