Daughters of Darkness

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Go on,’ I encourage her.

  ‘But a minute passed, and then another minute. Julia was still crying. It was getting worse and worse, and Mrs Stockton still hadn’t come to the door. I banged harder, and there was still nothing, just the baby breaking her heart. I began to think about all the terrible things that could have happened. Mrs Stockton could have fallen over and been knocked unconscious. She could have had a heart attack, and died. There was a pay phone downstairs, and I decided the best thing that I could do would be to call the police.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No, because just then I heard the front door open. Whoever it was started walking up the stairs, and – you know how you can recognize some people’s footsteps, even if they are climbing stairs …?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I knew it was Mrs Stockton. So I stayed where I was. She didn’t see me until she reached her landing. She looked shocked that I was there, even though we’d made the arrangement several days earlier. I said, “Julia is crying. Is there anyone with her?” Mrs Stockton shook her head as if it was really none of my business, then she must have felt guilty, because she said, “I only popped out for a minute or two.” But it wasn’t true.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘I’m sure. Her mackintosh was soaked through, so she must have been out for at least half an hour – and she stank of paraffin.’

  I am instantly suspicious of the statement.

  ‘When you fill a paraffin heater, you do sometimes smell of it for a while, but surely the rain would have washed that away,’ I say.

  ‘I said she stank of it – as if she’d spilled it all over herself.’

  If tentative little Annie was so sure of herself, she must be telling the truth, I think.

  ‘Julia was still crying,’ Annie continues, ‘and I said, “We’d better go inside and settle her down.” But Mrs Stockton barred my way.’

  ‘She did what?’

  ‘She stood with her back to the door, as if she thought I was going to force my way in. And maybe I would have done, because the crying was so terrible it was almost breaking my heart, but there was this wild – frightening – look in her eyes, like nothing I’d ever seen before, and I thought that if I didn’t back off, she’d grab me and throw me down the stairs.’

  ‘You can’t really have believed that,’ I say.

  ‘I did,’ she insists. ‘And you would have too, if you’d been there.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I concede. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘The madness was only there for a few seconds, but what replaced it was even worse. Her eyes were as cold as ice, and she said, “I’ll deal with Julia. You can go home now.” She didn’t apologize for bringing me out on a wet night for nothing. She didn’t even offer me a cup of tea. And that wasn’t like her, because usually she was the kindest, most considerate person you could ever hope to meet.’

  I feel a prickling at the back of my neck and an excitement welling up deep inside me, but I say nothing yet, for fear of spoiling the magic.

  ‘“I don’t mind coming in and looking after Julia just while you get out of those wet clothes,” I told her,’ Annie says. ‘And she looked at me as if she hated me. “I don’t need you now, and I won’t need you ever again – because we’re moving out of London tomorrow,” she said.’ Annie’s eyes filled with a remembered fear. ‘I got this sudden pain in my chest, and for a few seconds I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, ‘it’s one of the classic symptoms of shock.’

  ‘I said to Mrs Stockton, “You’re … you’re leaving?” and she said, “Yes. Didn’t you hear what I said – or are you just stupid?” The words sounded awful, but they just didn’t match the look in her eyes.’

  ‘And what was that look?’

  Annie shrugs. ‘I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. You’ll say I’m only being fanciful.’

  ‘I promise I won’t.’

  ‘The iciness had gone, just like the madness had, and she was just looking hurt. It was as if … as if she really didn’t want to be nasty to me, but she had no choice.’

  ‘And why might she have had no choice?’

  Annie waves her hands helplessly in the air, drawing ever and ever tightening circles.

  ‘I don’t know. I told you I was being fanciful.’

  I’m pushing her too much, I tell myself.

  ‘Have a cake,’ I say.

  ‘I really shouldn’t.’

  ‘Look, I’m dying for one,’ I lie, ‘but I’ll feel really awkward eating it on my own.’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Why don’t you have one, and eat only half of it?’

  ‘Mother says I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Your mother isn’t here.’

  For a second it looks as if she wants to claw my eyes out in defence of the spectre she lives with, then she smiles and says, ‘No, she isn’t, is she? I’ll have one of those with cream in the middle.’

  I order a whole plate of assorted cakes. She doesn’t object.

  ‘So there you were standing on the landing and Mrs Stockton told you to leave,’ I say. ‘I imagine that after what you’d just been through you did just that, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Annie says. ‘I wanted to, because I was frightened and I was hurt, but if I was never going to see Julia again, I wanted to say goodbye to her, so I asked Mrs Stockton if I could see her one last time. “The child’s disturbed,” she said. “You can hear that for yourself. The last thing she wants is to have someone like you bothering her.” I couldn’t believe I’d heard it. I went down on my knees in front of her – begging. Could you believe that anyone would be willing to humiliate themselves like that?’

  ‘You weren’t humiliating yourself,’ I tell her.

  ‘If it wasn’t humiliating, then what was it?’ she asks.

  ‘It was tragic,’ I say. ‘Tell me what happened next.’

  ‘I grabbed hold of the hem of her coat. I said, “Please, Mrs Stockton, let me see her – just for a few minutes.” I was looking up at her, searching for some little sign of pity, I suppose, but she wasn’t looking back at me. She was gazing at the ceiling, instead, and she said, “Now you listen to me, you foolish girl – if you don’t leave this house now, I’m calling the police.”’

  We private eyes quickly learn to be hardened and objective, so it must be the cake itself, rather than her words, which makes what’s in my mouth suddenly taste like sawdust. Annie is having the opposite reaction. The cakes appear to be sustaining her, and she’s almost ready for her third.

  ‘You went home, then?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ she answers, miserably. ‘I went home. Home to Mother.’

  It’s cruel to carry on, but I don’t see I have any choice.

  ‘You saw Mrs Stockton again, didn’t you?’ I force myself to say. ‘You went back to your old school when she gave a lecture, three years ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What made you go?’

  ‘Several of the girls who were taught by Mrs Stockton went,’ Annie says evasively.

  ‘What made you go?’ I repeat.

  Annie shrugs helplessly. ‘I don’t really know. I suppose I just wanted to find out what I’d done wrong all that time ago.’

  I’m so exasperated that I feel the urge return to shake her until her teeth rattle. But it wouldn’t do any good.

  ‘Nothing that happened was your fault. You must remember that,’ I insist. ‘Tell me about the lecture.’

  ‘Most of the audience were current pupils at the school, but, like I said, quite a few old girls turned up. They had fond memories of Dr Stockton, you see, just as I would have done if it hadn’t been for that night.’

  ‘Nothing that happened was your fault,’ I repeat, almost as if it were a Buddhist chant. ‘Nothing that happened was your fault.’

  ‘We old girls sat at the back of the hall,’ Annie continues. ‘But when Mrs Stockton
– Dr Stockton – had finished her lecture, she invited anyone who was interested to come up on stage, and continue the discussion. Four or five of us went down, but when we got to the actual stage, I … I held back.’

  ‘You were nervous,’ I say reassuringly. ‘That’s only natural.’

  ‘I don’t think Dr Stockton actually remembered any of the other girls – such a long time had passed, and so much had happened since they last met – but she pretended to recognize them, because she was such a nice woman. And even though she didn’t do a particularly good job of pretending, they all believed her, because they wanted to believe her – because who wouldn’t want to be remembered by someone like her?’

  You poor woman, I think. You poor, poor bloody woman!

  ‘And then my turn came,’ Annie says. ‘Dr Stockton shook hands with me, and said, “You’re another of my old pupils, aren’t you?” And when I agreed that I was, she said, “How you’ve all changed. How big and strong and confident you’ve become. And when you tell me your name, I’m sure I’ll be amazed when I remember the little thing you once were.” So I told her my name. With the others, she’d smiled, and said something like, “Of course you are.” But it was different with me.’

  I sodding well bet it was!

  ‘Her face froze, and for a moment I thought she’d had some kind of attack. Then she said, “Good God, are you still here? I’d have thought you’d have left the area long ago.” I still didn’t get it – despite all the signals, I conned myself into thinking we were having a normal conversation, and I said, “I probably would have left if it hadn’t been for Mother, but she needs—” “I really don’t want to talk to you,” she interrupted me. “I trusted you with my baby – and you neglected her so badly that she nearly died.” It wasn’t true, and I wanted to tell her it wasn’t true, but I got this stabbing pain in my stomach and I had to rush to the toilets. I seemed to be throwing up forever, and when I got back to the hall, she was gone. But the thing is, the look in her eyes was exactly the same as the look in her eyes on that terrible night the day before my birthday.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The eyes were telling me she really didn’t want to hurt me, but she had no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Why did she have no choice?’

  ‘I can’t explain it, but I believe it.’

  ‘Even so, when you came back from the bogs and she was gone, you must have really hated her.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. I just wished I understood why she acted like she did. I still wish that.’

  ‘Were you glad when you read in the paper, a few days later, that she’d been murdered?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘The only thing I thought was that it was going to be very hard on little Julia. That’s how I think of her, you see – little Julia – though I know she’s a grown woman now.’

  ‘Did you recognize the woman whose picture appeared in the papers – the woman who probably killed her?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  I take the picture out and lay it next to the nearly empty cake plate. ‘Take another look.’

  ‘It’s a lot clearer than it was in the paper,’ she says.

  ‘So do you recognize her?’

  ‘I’m not so sure any more. She looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t think I could put a name to the face.’

  ‘Have you seen her around here recently?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Imagine her twenty or thirty years younger.’

  She closes her eyes in concentration, then opens them again.

  ‘No, that doesn’t help.’

  A suspicion which has never occurred to me before begins to grow inside me like a cancer.

  Annie loved Grace Stockton (I don’t think that’s too strong a word for it) and Grace not only let her down, but in doing so virtually condemned her to a life of misery.

  Then, when Annie gave her a chance to redeem herself, Grace all but spat in her face.

  And now we have a situation in which Annie claims to be unable to recognize the face of another woman who, in all probability, has lived in the area all her life, (as Annie has), and who must have known Grace when Annie did.

  Unless …

  Unless Red Duffle Coat Woman didn’t know Grace at all, but had been hired as a hitman by a spinster lady who had no idea how to go about contacting a professional killer.

  ‘Are you saying you really don’t know her?’ I persist. ‘Or are you holding out on me?’

  I am being more transparent than I thought I was, because the look that comes to her face now tells me she has worked out what I’m thinking.

  ‘Do you think I killed Mrs Stockton?’ she asks angrily.

  ‘No, I think the woman in the photograph did.’

  ‘But you think that I might have been the one who hired her?’

  I could deny it, but there would be very little point.

  ‘That’s a possibility I can’t entirely rule out,’ I confess.

  With a speed which catches me completely off guard, she reaches across the table and grabs the lapels of my jacket.

  ‘Listen,’ she says, dragging me across the table so our faces are almost touching, ‘if I’d paid her to kill anybody, I’d have paid her to kill …’

  She stops suddenly, as a look of horror crosses her face. She lets go of my jacket and slumps back in her chair.

  She’s not my killer – not even by proxy – I think. She couldn’t possibly be.

  ‘That felt good, didn’t it?’ I ask her.

  ‘What?’ she asks, pretending not to know what it is that I’m talking about.

  ‘It felt good getting angry!’ I say. ‘It felt good to be fighting back, instead of just lying there and getting trampled on!’

  ‘I completely lost control of myself,’ she says primly. ‘I behaved in a most undignified manner, and I’m very sorry for it. Even pigs have more manners than to act like that.’

  I grin.

  ‘Have I said something funny?’ she demands.

  ‘In some ways, you’re quite right about the pigs,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember a pig ever grabbing me by the lapels and hauling me across the table. On the other hand, they do screw in the open air, regardless of who’s looking. And they almost never apologize for anything.’ I grin again. ‘When you say they’ve got more manners, you’re quoting your mother, aren’t you?’

  She blushes. ‘Mother may have said something similar,’ she admits.

  ‘I’ve two things I have to say to you,’ I tell her. ‘The first – and this may come as something of a relief to you – is that it’s obvious to me now that you played no part in Grace Stockton’s murder.’

  She is expecting me to say more – but I don’t.

  We sit there in silence for maybe twenty seconds before Annie cracks and says, ‘What’s the second thing?’

  ‘You don’t have to hire a hitman to be free of your mother,’ I tell her. ‘All you have to do is show her that you are your own woman.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  25th November, 1944

  In an effort to make life as difficult as possible for any future Luftwaffe bombing raids, the British government had imposed a blackout over the whole country in September 1939.

  What that had meant, in practical terms, was that all the street lighting was turned off for the duration of the war, and it became an offence (punishable by a fine, or even imprisonment) for people to leave a gap in their living room or bedroom curtains which allowed the light to leak out onto the street. Cars – of which, as a result of petrol rationing, there were fewer and fewer around – were only permitted to drive on sidelights, and pedestrians were instructed to ensure that the torches they used to find their way had their reflectors covered with tissue paper.

  There were, of course, unintended consequences of this newly imposed darkness. In the early months of the war, for example, six hundred people a month
were run over by motor cars, but the powers-that-be in Whitehall considered this a reasonable price to pay for stopping the Germans from pinpointing exactly where they should drop their bombs.

  Thus it was that the great city of London – which in peacetime had cast a light into the sky that could be clearly seen from at least thirty miles away – had fallen into darkness.

  PC Turnbull disliked the blackout even more than most people did, and with – so he considered – very good reason. The rest of London didn’t have to go out in the dark if it didn’t want to. It could relax behind its blackout shades, snuggled down in cosy armchairs, sipping from bottles of beer, and listening to any number of cheery morale-boosting variety shows on the wireless.

  But not PC Clive Reginald Turnbull!

  Oh no!

  It was PC Turnbull’s duty to pound out his beat along Bankside each and every night (save for his day off).

  And not only was it a lonely task, but it was also a pointless one, because when there was no moon, any number of murders, robberies or burglaries could have been perpetrated within fifty yards of him, and unless the murderers, burglars or robbers went about their work in a particularly noisy manner, he would have remained in blissful ignorance of it.

  And what about the bright nights, when there was a full moon? Well, as far as he was concerned, that was an even worse situation.

  ‘I mean, what’s going to happen if I come across some villain whilst he’s in the process of committing a criminal act?’ he’d asked his old mate, Edgar Swann, over a pint of bitter (one of the few things that was not on the ration) in the Dog and Whistle.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Edgar had replied. ‘What is going to happen?’

  ‘Well, he’s going to scarper – make his getaway, like – isn’t he?’

  ‘You’d better hope he does, because if he decides to stay and slug it out with you, you’re in real trouble,’ Edgar had said.

  ‘I can give as good as I get if it comes to a punch up,’ replied Turnbull, though he convinced nobody (himself included). ‘What I can’t do is match him for speed. I mean to say, the chances are he’s one of them fit young men what’s recently deserted from the army. And what am I?’