“Can I help you?” she asked, looking up from her crossword. He wondered if she could tell, just by looking at him, that he was a DIY phoney.
“Er, hi. Nerys, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Are you a journalist?”
“No, I’m a … friend of Sapphire’s.”
“I suppose you’ve come to ask me some questions?”
He nodded.
“Well, go on, then. But make it original. I’m getting sick of telling the same story over and over again.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?” he asked.
She shook her head, causing a strand of her hair to fall out of its plait. “Barely met the girl.”
“Did she offer you money to drop out of the contest?”
She narrowed her almond eyes. “Who told you that?”
He reddened. “Put it this way, you wouldn’t be the only one.”
“No, I assumed that much.”
“So she did pay you off then?”
“She tried, but I reported her to the May Fair committee. They told me they’d look into it but that was a load of old codswallop.”
“So nothing happened?”
“Course not! It was a fix from the start. I mean, Sapphire donates the tea and cakes for most of the village functions, so of course they were going to choose her. I should have taken her bloody money. At least then I’d be a grand better off.”
Another grand? Sapphire must have wanted to be May Queen really badly.
“Well, thanks for talking to me.”
“That’s OK. Made a change from staring at the wall.”
He turned to leave.
“Hold on a mo …”
“Yes?”
“I would be remiss if I did not mention that the wood chippings are reduced to seventy-nine ninety-nine for the rest of the month.”
“Good to know.”
The last time Gertrude saw Claire was when her dress was delivered, the day before the May Fair.
“Aren’t you going to try it on?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Claire said. “They took all my measurements.”
“Don’t you think you should make sure?”
Claire shrugged and slipped the dress on over her jeans. She looked incredible, but instead of feeling happy for her, Gertrude felt angry. Why did Claire get all the good genes: the wide, blue eyes; the luscious, blonde hair; the long, shapely legs?
“How do I look?” she asked, turning this way and that in the mirror, fretting about her non-existent fat bottom.
“Bloody perfect,” Gertrude said, stuffing a handful of Smarties into her mouth. She wondered what it would be like to look like Claire, even for a day. She bet people would treat her differently. In fact, she knew they would.
While Claire went out with her friends that night, Gertrude stayed in her room. Dirty Dancing was on TV, but she couldn’t concentrate. The more she stewed over it, the angrier she became. Rage rode her. She grabbed a pair of scissors and burst into Claire’s appallingly messy bedroom. The beautiful, white May Queen dress hung from the wardrobe, like an island in a sea of chaos. She held up the scissors, ready to cut, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she pulled off her jeans and jumper and slipped the dress over her head. She could just about squeeze it over her hips. There was no way it was going to zip up, but that didn’t matter. Standing there in front of the full-length mirror, she looked like a May Queen.
“Why her and not me?” she muttered, looking mournfully at her reflection. She tried to picture a slimmer, more confident her, but she couldn’t do it. Life had sucked her so far down its giant sinkhole that it seemed impossible she would ever climb out.
She should have slashed that dress. She should have burnt it. Because maybe then Claire wouldn’t have gone to the May Fair. But Gertrude’s jealousy prevented her from going to watch her sister being crowned that day. It also prevented her from saying goodbye.
As had become his habit, Jock stopped for a drink at the Dragon with Dylan before going to bed that night.
“Alright?” they greeted each other simultaneously, neither of them feeling the need to reply.
“So, how’s the novel coming?” Dylan asked.
“Fine,” Jock replied. “But to be honest, I spend half my time searching for Sapphire.”
Dylan looked at him oddly.
“Virtually, I mean. On the internet.”
“Oh. How’s that going?”
“Not great,” he admitted. “The more I discover, the more I need to know.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for example, do you think it’s relevant that Fleckford is only thirty miles from Whiteford, where the last May Queen went missing?”
“Could be.”
“It seems odd to me. All the other May Queens disappeared from quite far-flung locations, as if the killer was on a prolonged tour of the British Isles. But Whiteford and Fleckford are quite close together. It breaks the pattern, doesn’t it?”
“What do you think that means?”
“I don’t know; maybe Peter Helston was guilty like the police said and this time it’s a copycat.”
Dylan scratched his chin. “It might mean that the May Queen Killer is still in the same area as he – or she – was five years ago. He probably lives round here or has something that ties him to the area, like family or a job.” He took a sip of his pint. “Do you know if Peter Helston’s family still live round here?”
“Why?”
“They’re on the suspect list, aren’t they?”
“Are they?”
“Of course they are. Because Sapphire’s disappearance adds credence to their claim that Peter was innocent. According to them, the May Queen Killer is still out there and always has been. It’s not much of a motive, I’ll grant you, but if I were working on the case, I’d want to eliminate them.”
Jock nodded. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them, if only to rule them out.”
14
Gertrude did not realise anything was amiss until the day after May Day. It wasn’t unusual for Claire to sleep past noon on weekends, so she wasn’t worried when she failed to turn up for lunch. She had said something about staying at a friend’s house, but she couldn’t recall which friend, so she texted her to ask when she would be back and got on with making the egg sandwiches.
Their mother was in the garden, singing tunelessly as she hung out the washing in the pouring rain. The wet sheets billowed in the wind as she struggled to peg them to the line. Her flimsy blouse was soaked through and her slippered feet were covered in mud, but Gertrude had already tried and failed to bring her inside.
When her mum eventually came in, Gertrude wrapped a towel around her and tried to get her to eat, but instead she proceeded to tackle the ironing. She did not seem to notice that the iron did not heat up. Even the fact that Gertrude had cut the cord did not give the game away. Gertrude ate lunch alone at the table while looking out the window for Claire. Her mother didn’t take so much as a bite out of her sandwich, so she ate that, too.
“Mum, do you know where Claire is?” she asked.
“It’s spring time, isn’t it?” her mother muttered. “She’ll be in the daffodils.”
“What are you talking about?” Gertrude spat. “I’m going to ring round her friends and see where she’s got to.”
She rang a couple of Claire’s friends before she got to Gaby.
“She didn’t come home?” Gaby said, her voice a little shaky.
“No.”
“Oh God! Then where the hell is she?”
A cold fork jabbed through Gertrude’s heart. Claire wasn’t just late. She was missing. She might have been jealous of Claire, desperately jealous at times, but she still loved her. She was her significant other, the second half of her. There had been no men in her life, no best friend. It was Claire she talked to about things: the absence of their father and managing their mother. What would she do without her? How could she po
ssibly carry on?
Jock sat on the number 67 bus with his TomTom poised on his lap. The bus wound its way round the country lanes, stopping forever at each stop. At this rate, it would take him years to reach his destination. Still, the countryside was breath-taking, with tiny thatched cottages set against a backdrop of lush, green grass, clouds of sheep and the palest of blue skies. The canal ran alongside the bus for most of the trip, bending and dipping with the road. He was so busy looking out the window that he missed his stop and had to walk back, traipsing the hems of his trousers in the puddles.
Pepper Hill was a quaint little village. Small but suburban, with neat little lawns. All the hedges were trimmed to the required height and the houses were painted in dull, tasteful colours. He didn’t have too much trouble finding the Pink Flamingo Gallery. There was a large wooden sculpture of a flamingo in the window. Actually, it was more peach than pink, but he wasn’t about to quibble.
He pushed the door open and went inside. A quick glance up and down the long, narrow room confirmed that he was the only customer. He stopped in front of a large, abstract painting of an avocado sheltering under an umbrella and pretended to admire it.
“Morning.” An older lady walked towards him. “I must apologise – I don’t actually know much about the paintings. My daughter’s just popped out. She should be back in a jiff.” She gave him a crinkly smile. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Do you?”
“You’re J.K. Jeffries, aren’t you?”
“It’s not often I get recognised,” he admitted.
“Well I saw you on the book show a couple of months ago. The Mother’s Day special. I thought it was lovely how you work so closely with your mum. Gabriella will be thrilled you dropped in. I’m Daphne, by the way.
“Yes, I know.”
The smile froze on her lips. “Yes, well I suppose people recognise me, too.” She started to shuffle towards the back of the shop.
“No, wait. I really wanted to talk to you.” He addressed this last sentence to her back. She stood rigid in the middle of the gallery. “I realise this is a bit awkward,” he said, “but I’m a … friend of Sapphire Butterworth’s, the May Queen who’s gone missing.”
She turned to look at him. “Would you like a glass of lemonade?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I have one. I’m terribly thirsty all of a sudden.”
She poured herself a long glass and drank it in large gulps. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend, of course,” she said. “But it just goes to show what I’ve been telling the police all along. Peter was framed. I don’t know how, or who by, I just know that he didn’t have it in him. The real May Queen Killer has been hiding away, biding his time and as soon as they brought back the May Fairs, he struck again. I predicted this would happen, but no one would listen.” She eased herself into the desk chair. “Of course, I feel awful for that poor girl, but for me this is a vindication. People have stopped staring at me like I’m a leper. Oh, they still stare, but they’re starting to believe that maybe Peter was innocent after all. If only he were still around to see it.”
“So why do you think he confessed?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t overstepping the mark.
“They broke him,” Daphne said. “I don’t know what happened to him in that police interview, but something did. They drove him crazy. He wasn’t the same man after they had finished with him. They made him confess to such terrible things and in such detail that they must have been feeding him the lines. Meanwhile, the real killer was lying low, waiting until there was a fresh crop of May Queens to harvest.”
He was about to ask for more details when a young woman walked in. This, he guessed, was Gabriella. She was voluptuous, with glossy, black hair, pulled back in a tight Croydon facelift. Her over-plucked eyebrows were knitted tightly together as she approached.
“Mum, what’s going on?” she asked Daphne. “I thought we said we weren’t going to talk to any more journalists.”
“Oh, I’m not a journalist,” Jock said, straightening his collar. “My name’s Jock Skone. I’m a friend of Sapphire Butterworth’s.”
Gabriella narrowed her eyes. “The girl that disappeared?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I don’t know what Mum’s told you, but we don’t know anything about her or any of the other May Queens.”
“Gabriella, there’s no need to be rude.”
“I’m not being rude, Mum. I’m sure he’s just on his way.”
She glanced at his TomTom. “Where did you park, anyway? I didn’t see a car.”
“I came by bus.”
“But we’re a good mile off the bus route!”
“I know. I left my Porsche in London.”
“Did you now?”
She was dying to know if he really had a Porsche; he could tell.
He trudged back to the bus stop, mulling over what Daphne had told him. The bus shelter was one of those supremely uncomfortable ones, with no seat to sit on as such, just a ledge that made it near impossible to perch. And as the ground was wet and muddy, he could hardly sit on the floor. Jock scowled. He was cold, damp and tired. And he hated standing.
He didn’t look up as the pink Seat Ibiza pulled up in front of him, not until Gabriella leaned out of the tinted window.
“Can I give you a lift?” she called. “Not as fancy as a Porsche, but still …”
“It’s probably a bit out of your way,” he said. “I’m staying in Fleckford.”
“Fleckford? Well, there won’t be another bus going in that direction till this afternoon.”
“Oh!”
“I tell you what, why don’t you come into town with me and get some lunch? I can drop you back in time for the bus.”
He hesitated for a moment. What was she up to? But it was wet and he was hungry. The prospect of a warm car and food sounded pretty good.
“Well, OK then,” he said. “Just as long as I’m paying.” After all, he didn’t want to feel completely emasculated.
Gabriella grinned. “You’ll get no arguments from me,” she said, leaning across to open the passenger door for him.
There wasn’t much talk on the way to the restaurant. Gabriella turned up her music and it was all he could do not to cover his ears. He hadn’t been subjected to much rap before and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Here we are,” she said, pulling up in front of a fancy-looking Italian. He took in the ostentatious building and hoped he wasn’t going to regret his offer of buying lunch. And yet once they were settled at a table in the middle of the bustling restaurant, they were soon talking and laughing like old friends. She was quite nice, actually. Not quite the spitfire he had taken her for.
“So you really want to help clear Dad’s name?” she asked, as they nibbled on steaming hot slices of garlic bread.
“I want to find Sapphire,” he said, “and to do that, I need to know the truth.”
She nodded. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Ever since Claire disappeared.”
“Claire Scutter? You knew her?”
“She was a friend.” She unfolded her napkin. “And I admit, I was a little bit envious when she was crowned May Queen, but I was happy for her, too. I said we should go out and celebrate after the May Fair.”
“So what happened?”
“So we went out: me, Claire and a few other friends. It was a really great night but I was done in by about twelve. I wanted to go home, but Claire wanted to stay out longer. She was getting a lot of attention in her May Queen dress and I suppose she just wanted to enjoy it. She was supposed to be staying over at my house, so I told her I’d leave the back door unlocked for her.”
The waitress arrived with their food and skilfully balanced the dishes on the impossibly tiny table.
“It wasn’t until the morning that I realised Claire wasn’t there, but I just assumed she’d gone home instead of staying over. I dropped her a text, but she’d had a la
te night, so I wasn’t worried when she didn’t reply. I thought she’d be sleeping. But later, her sister called and asked why she wasn’t answering her phone. That’s when I got scared.”
Jock swallowed a forkful of lasagne. “What was her sister’s name?” he asked, blowing on his food.
“Gertrude. I didn’t know her very well. She was a bit shy and mousy.”
He brought up a picture on his phone.
“Is this her?”
She laughed. “No way! Gertrude was really …” she looked again. “Wait a minute, maybe. Maybe it could be. If she dyed her hair blonde and put on a little make-up and got in shape.”
She stared at the picture for a long time. “This is Sapphire, isn’t it – the girl who’s gone missing?”
“Yes.”
“And you think she and Gertrude are the same person?”
15
Jock scratched his head. “I don’t know. It’s just a hunch. Why don’t you go on with your story?”
Gabriella bit her lip. “Well, I’d rung just about everyone, but no luck. Then we had the police round, asking questions. I didn’t even realise what it was all leading up to. They arrested my parents and took them down the station. And while we were there, they had people searching the house. As far as I knew, Claire hadn’t been in the house that night, but the police said they found evidence that she had. I thought it must be some kind of mistake. She’d been round to drop off her stuff before we went out, so I thought that was what they were picking up on, but they were adamant. Claire had been in our house that night and now she was missing. Mum was released within a few hours, looking all grey and haggard. We stayed at the police station, waiting for news. But then they charged Dad with murder and what was worse, they said he’d confessed to three other murders, too. You can’t imagine what that feels like. My stomach was going round and round like a washing machine. I thought I was going to be sick and then Mum just slumped back in her chair. She’d had a minor heart attack; though how a heart attack can be minor I’ll never understand.”
The Perfect Girl Page 10
