by Alice Castle
Miss Douglas breathed deeply yet again, yanked some tissues from the box on her desk, and brought them round to her friend, pressing her hand onto her shoulder. It was all Miss Troughton needed. Her sobs receded, and her own pudgy hand moved up to rest on Miss Douglas’s, ingrained with chalk dust from her years of teaching, the nails short and sensible, the skin weathered by weekends in the garden and their years in the North.
Miss Douglas stood as still as a statue. Miss Troughton’s hand was hot and clammy, but she knew she couldn’t withdraw her own, however much she wanted to. Bernie needed this moment. Stealthily, Angela Douglas moved her other hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose in a vicious grip. Oh God. She could feel a migraine coming on. That was all she needed.
***
‘That poor woman, can you imagine?’ said Katie, as they sat over lukewarm coffees in the Aurora café. It was definitely a moment to be as far away from the wagging tongues of Dulwich as possible. The awful news of Simone Osborne’s death and Lulu Cox’s overdose would be spreading faster than a blood stain on a silk blouse, via Jane’s café round the corner and every other spot in Dulwich where you could get a hot beverage and exchange a word with neighbours. Beth was pretty sure even her cat, Magpie, would be well aware of every nuance of the story in the next few minutes. That ginger tom round the corner from their house was a shocking gossip, and the two always had their furry heads together.
‘That’s the pitiful thing,’ said Beth. ‘By all accounts, Simone’s mum did a great job bringing up two kids alone, making ends meet, keeping them on the straight and narrow, doing her best for them. Simone had done so brilliantly, getting the scholarship; she was a really clever girl, must have been. And now the irony is that her poor mum must be thinking, if only she’d left her at the other school. She would probably have been fine. She might not have got the best exam results, no great uni place or amazing career ahead – but she would have been alive.’
‘Plus, the way everyone will be judging her,’ said Katie absently.
‘Judging the mum? What for? None of this is her fault.’
‘Yes, well, come on, Beth. You of all people should know how it is. She’s a single mother in Dulwich. She’s going to get judged.’
Instantly, Beth was fuming. ‘This is nothing to do with her being on her own. You must see that.’
It was Katie’s matter-of-fact tone that made Beth see red. ‘Of course, I know that, but that’s not going to stop people thinking that if it had been a stable home, with a man around, then none of this would have happened.’
‘Excuse me! A home can be stable without a man around.’
‘I know that, Beth. Christ, I’m not the one you should be losing it with. I’m just saying. People think someone like Simone’s mum has made a choice to go it alone, or can’t sustain a relationship for some reason, and that makes the kids act up. You know, in some cases, it’s not an unreasonable assumption,’ Katie finished.
Beth stared at her, and shook her head. ‘So, would you judge me if James had walked out on me, instead of just doing the decent thing and dying?’
Katie had the grace to look abashed. ‘I’d judge him, that’s for sure. He’d have been mad to leave you. Look, I didn’t make these rules, and I don’t play to them – or at least, I hope I don’t – but that doesn’t mean I can’t see what they are. Other people will assume that one of the reasons Simone is lying dead is because her mother couldn’t cope at some level. You know that’s true. Whenever something goes wrong, people blame the mother.’
Beth sighed. ‘You’ve got something there. Serial killer? Mum didn’t stop him torturing hamsters. Evil dictator? Didn’t get put on the naughty step enough.’
Both women smiled, but their accord felt more brittle than usual. Beth relied on her friendship with Katie; it was the rope that lashed her ship together as she sailed the uncertain seas of single parenthood. Today, she had felt the boards creak beneath her feet and she didn’t like it.
She knew she was outside Dulwich norms, bringing Ben up alone and earning her own keep. In the 21st century, it was ridiculous that she was an anomaly here, but in many ways this place made Agatha Christie’s fictional St Mary Mead look like Sodom and Gomorrah. On the surface at least. As she had cause to know, nasty secrets could lurk beneath the most placid of exteriors.
Beth felt a sudden surge of solidarity with Jo Osborne, Simone’s mother. From that momentary meeting over the moribund girl’s hospital bed, Beth had felt the strength of Simone’s fierce love for her daughter. Now she, in turn, felt protective of the woman. Katie was absolutely right, her reputation was about to be casually and thoughtlessly trashed by all the smug middle-class mamas, keen to tell themselves that such a fate could not befall their own daughters because this luckless single parent family had brought it on themselves. Well, Beth was going to get to the bottom of this, and prove once and for all that what Jo Osborne had, or hadn’t, done was irrelevant. This crime was rooted in Dulwich today, not in whoever had fathered Jo’s baby fourteen years before.
Though, no sooner had she thought this, than a big red warning sign went up in Beth’s brain. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, she knew it meant a large clue had come her way.
‘Hang on a minute. You know, you might have some sort of a point,’ she said excitedly.
‘Well, thanks a bunch,’ said Katie in mock umbrage.
‘No, I mean – the father. Who’s the father? What if it’s somebody big in Dulwich? And what if it was all about to come out? Don’t you see? They could have a motive.’ Beth found herself leaning forward. Katie, her jaw dropping slightly, leaned in, too.
‘Oh my God! You’re right. But how can we find out who he might have been?’
‘I’ll have to ask Jo,’ said Beth, grimacing at the thought of cross-questioning the bereaved mother about something so delicate. It would take all her not-particularly-well-developed skills of tact and diplomacy – and then some. ‘Wait a minute. Maybe I can just get York to do that. It’s a job for the police, right?’
Katie nodded, relieved. ‘That’s a better idea. I hate it when you do the dangerous stuff.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ said Beth, with the glimmer of a smile. ‘So do I. Meanwhile, what can we get on with? I think the school angle is one of the best.’
‘We don’t know it’s anything to do with the school yet, though, do we?’ said Katie.
‘Weren’t you listening to Maria: all that stuff about the Blue Whale challenge, the Emos, the anorexics, the cutters? That school is riddled with girls who can do the schoolwork with their hands tied behind their backs, so they fill the time by thinking up ways to torture themselves – and their friends.’
‘Beth, that’s harsh! They’re just schoolgirls, after all. We have no idea what happened. Maybe Simone took the drugs at that party, maybe she was into all that stuff…and this Lulu girl as well, for all we know.’
Beth hunched her shoulders defensively for a second, then relaxed. ‘You know what, Katie? You’re absolutely right. I think that’s one of the most frustrating things about this case. There are suspects, sure, but it’s everybody at the College School, or everybody at the Gallery party. Or yes, it’s just Simone, getting hold of the stuff and taking it for some reason that we just don’t understand and will probably never get to the bottom of. It’s either too wide a field, or too narrow.’
‘But hang on. If Lulu Cox has taken the drugs as well, or been given them or whatever, surely that makes a big difference? Don’t you just have to find out where she’s been and who she’s friends with, and things should start to make sense?’
Beth, lost in gloom, took a while to absorb her friend’s words. Then she looked at Katie in wonderment. Her sunny and beautiful friend was quite right. It wasn’t a case of cherchez la femme, but cherchez la schoolgirl. ‘You’re amazing, you know that?’
Katie smiled. ‘All part of the service. Now, are you coming to my stretch class?’
‘Sorry,’ Beth sh
ook her head. ‘I’ve got a million things to do.’
‘Are any of them part of your job?’ Katie asked, head on one side.
‘Well… maybe one or two.’ It was Beth’s turn to smile.
Just then, the door jangled, and York loomed in the doorway. Katie glanced at him and got to her feet with hurried grace. ‘I see what you mean. Don’t work too hard now,’ she smiled, then edged past York with a quick hello and was off round the corner to her exercise studio above the dress shop, head full of musings which she didn’t plan to raise with her friend.
‘All right for coffee?’ York asked. Beth looked doubtfully into the dregs of her cappuccino, which had managed to be simultaneously bitter and yet still over-milky. Maybe she’d be luckier with another? ‘Could I have a flat white?’ she asked, tentatively.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, strolling up to the counter, where the waitress had gone on auto-simper, her mode when dealing with male customers.
Beth tried to marshal her thoughts and block out the sound of inane girly giggling while York put their order in. By the time the waitress had pirouetted, blushing, into the kitchen to throw their coffee around and York had finally plonked himself down opposite her, she was more than ready to plunge into speech.
‘We need to look into this friendship group; it all comes down to that. These girls hunt in packs at that age. There’s got to be something going on in this group that will explain who did this, and why.’
York kept his counsel while patting his pockets for his notebook and pencil, and got out his phone as well for good measure. Beth, watching rather sourly, wondered if he could possibly do it all any slower. ‘Do you know for a fact that these girls were even friends?’ he asked eventually.
‘You can’t tell me it’s coincidence that something like this would happen, in one of the best girls’ schools in the country?’
‘I don’t see what the calibre of the school has to do with anything,’ said York in reasonable tones.
Beth tutted. ‘Well, you wouldn’t. You don’t know Dulwich. But the thing is that these schools are hothouses. The girls at the College School aren’t like pupils at any other place around here. They have huge expectations put onto their shoulders from a really young age.’
‘Who by?’ said York.
‘Well, everyone. Their parents, their teachers… themselves. If you think about it, there are what, 300 places at the College School in Year 7? Most of those will already be taken by parents who’ve been paying thousands of pounds a year for their daughters’ educations since they were four years old. That’s quite an investment, but some people consider that it’s worthwhile to get them into the secondary school without having to do the exam. You’ve got to remember that the College School is in the top 20 schools in the UK. So, when exam time comes, the pressure, the grooming of those girls is quite incredible…’
‘Grooming? That sounds dodgy,’ said York. It seemed to be an attempt at levity, but Beth frowned repressively. She was serious about all this.
‘I just mean extra tuition. Almost every girl that sits the exam will have been tutored, even if they come from the private prep schools. No parent wants to leave it to chance. I’m not saying any of this is good, it is just the atmosphere that surrounds the College School.’
‘I’m still not really with you,’ said York, large hands pressed palms together on the table, and taking up a good deal more than half the space. Beth drew back slightly and tried again.
‘By the time a girl has got into the College School, I would imagine she’s elated, but she’s also under no illusions. It’s not going to be easy. She’s surrounded by clever girls, all of them ambitious, focused on success. It’s not a relaxing atmosphere,’ she said heavily.
‘Well, OK, I see that. Are you saying all this pressure warps the girls?’
Beth thought for a second. ‘I suppose I am. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. It really is. But would it warp them enough? Enough to make sense of whatever’s going on?’
‘I think so,’ said Beth sadly. ‘I think we need to talk to Simone’s friends. And Lulu’s. We need access to Year 9.’
Just then, the waitress emerged from the back room with two cups and saucers. York’s was placed daintily before him – a cappuccino with, for once, quite a reasonable head of foam and even a wobbly, smiley face marked out in cocoa powder. Beth’s flat white was just that – an uninspiring brew, the colour of dishwater, and without so much as a trace of foam on top.
She looked up at the waitress, but the girl’s face, body, and whole attention were turned to York, and Beth gave up the attempt to remonstrate. With a final simper, the waitress wandered back to her station and lounged, chin propped in hand, on the counter, quite obviously trying to overhear their conversation.
York gave a quick glance in her direction, then edged his chair round so his substantial back was facing the girl and he was at right angles to Beth.
‘I’ve told you before what I think about “we” in these matters,’ he started sternly. ‘But in this case, it is quite useful to have someone on board that I don’t have to pay. Guards sitting outside hospital doors round the clock don’t come cheap; the overtime has been coming out of my ears.’
Beth smiled slightly at this unlikely vision, and at the news that she had, yet again, managed to inveigle herself onto the investigation. Only in a small way it was true, but who knew what she’d be able to winkle out now?
‘I think our first port of call should be Maria Luyten at the Wellesley,’ she said decisively.
‘Wait a minute now, I thought we were going straight to the friendship group? I thought you said that was the key to this whole thing?’
‘I think it is. But I’m not sure you really understand teenage girls, and I think she can really help us. Plus, I think she’s probably treating a few girls from Year 9. She probably knows them better than anyone,’ said Beth, taking a mammoth sip of her flat white, and then nearly choking. Her regrets were nearly as bitter as the coffee, as York thumped her back and her eyes streamed. The waitress even wafted out, proffering some tissues – to York, not to Beth – to help mop up.
Beth grabbed them and did her best, then gathered her things, as York sipped his own drink without any sense of urgency. She was fidgeting away and perching on the edge of her seat when she suddenly remembered her other brainwave of the morning. ‘Also – Simone’s father.’
‘Mmm,’ said York, raising his eyes from the coffee, which he was showing every appearance of enjoying far too much. If this went on, the Aurora would lose its hard-won reputation as the worst café in Dulwich, and Beth would have to find another corner to conduct her quiet discussions. Mind you, her own coffee had been as disgusting as ever. Her bolthole was probably safe.
‘Well, who is he? Don’t you see, he may well have a motive? Maybe the secret was about to come out and he had to stop her.’
York sat there stolidly, seemingly unmoved by Beth’s breakthrough.
‘Oh, come on, you have to admit it’s a great motive for murder,’ said Beth, exasperated.
York took yet another swallow. ‘Maybe. But don’t you think if it was the father, and he didn’t want the truth to come out for some reason which we have no idea about, then he’d probably turn his attention to Jo, rather than his own child? Men don’t usually kill their kids, but they might want to shut up a blabbing ex. We have no proof that Simone even knew who her dad was. But Jo certainly does. Or I would hope so, anyway,’ said York off-handedly, carefully putting his notebook, pen and phone back into their individual pockets at precisely the same unhurried pace by which he’d produced them in the first place.
Beth, who’d felt on the verge of cracking the whole business wide open, subsided slightly in her seat. ‘Oh. I didn’t think of that. Well, I suppose it saves me having to have a very difficult conversation with Jo, anyway. Or asking you to do it,’ she said, pinning a smile to her face.
‘Look, we can find out who the fathe
r was, but I’m not sure it will push us any further on, are you? And I think we have bigger fish to fry at the moment,’ said York.
The waitress, pricking up her ears, stepped forward. ‘You’d like the fish? I’ll just talk to the chef.’
York held up a hand. ‘No thank you, not today. Lovely coffee, though,’ he said with a smile that made the girl’s sallow cheeks blush peony pink. Beth scowled and scraped her chair back loudly, scraping up her bag from the floor, flinging it on the table and searching for her purse.
‘I’ve got these,’ said York, his hand coming down warmly on hers for a second.
Startled, she met his eyes and smiled, then inwardly cursed herself. She wouldn’t be as silly as the waitress. She just wouldn’t. She stumped off to the door and tried to pull it back. As usual, it stuck and squealed a protest on the tiled floor. York, throwing down some money for their coffees, hastened over and gave the door a gentle yank that sent it flying backwards.
‘Wait outside. I’ll bring the car round,’ said York, and Beth emerged blinking into the Dulwich sunshine. As usual, the café had begun to feel very small when they’d been standing there, together. At least there was room to breathe on the pavement. She trotted past Village Books, the window piled high with all the latest releases. It had been ages since she’d had a good read lined up for the evenings; she’d spent much too much time of late on all her freelance assignments. She made a mental note to pop in and stock up as soon as she had a minute.
A board outside the shop advertised a signing with a local author on Saturday. That could be fun, and there might be a drink in it, too. She’d see if Katie would like to come with her. Michael would be fine to watch the boys for an hour or so; it was the weekend, after all. Their slight falling-out this morning had been worrying, but this would be just the thing to heal the rift, get them back on their usual footing.
There was something about being out of doors in Dulwich on a bright, sunny day that lifted even the gloomiest of spirits. Beth looked around appreciatively at the busy street scene. The chemist was doing a roaring, though discreet, trade in nit shampoo and mean metal combs as the temperature climbed. The deli’s tables were already filling with nannies having post-post-breakfast coffees, and mothers ordering pre-pre-lunch lattes. There was a young mum herding her toddler into the shoe shop, where you took a numbered ticket and waited your turn, like in Harrod’s deli, while the eternally patient assistants wrestled with tiny chubby feet the size and shape of Dairylea triangles. Beth remembered sitting there with Ben aged three, and getting him fitted for sandals that would last three months and cost £40, while she tried to hide the fact that the soles of her own shoes were flapping open as widely as a Labrador’s smile.
