BEFORE I LEFT a gripping psychological thriller full of killer twists

by Daisy White

  “Later today, I think. Did you phone Johnnie? He must have all the phone numbers too.”

  “I left a message at his house. The woman said she would give it to him as soon as he got in, but she didn’t know when that would be or where he was.” Mary stands up and rummages at the bedside for my uniform. “Come on, get dressed as we talk or that ten-minute break is going to be up, and the stingy cow will probably dock our pay or something. Although I have to say, they both seemed quite concerned about you when I told them about the murder. Just, you know, for half a second. Are you still saying nothing about . . . well, anything else?”

  I pause, halfway into my tunic, and then haul it quickly into place. The little zip-up bag with the two signet rings seems to be flashing a neon sign over my bed, but I keep quiet. “Nothing. I said we moved down here to be with my cousin and gave our address as the salon. In fact, they didn’t seem that interested in where we had come from.” I give my short blonde hair a quick brush and wash my face from the bowl of water on the table. A dab of mascara and some red lipstick, and I’m good to go. Well, actually the mirror shows a ghostly pale reflection, with red eyes and greasy hair, but it’ll have to do. I force a smile.

  “Right. If you’re sure. I don’t want Derek involved in any of this, and certainly don’t want him finding out where we are. Which is bound to happen if the police start poking around.” Mary unlocks the door again. “We’ll get through this, Ruby. We’ve dealt with worse.”

  I feel uncomfortable under her direct gaze, but I follow her back down the stairs. Sunlight pours through a little fan window above my head. The window is positioned high above the bare staircase and the coloured glass is predominantly red. To me, the light shining through spreads bloodstains on the wooden stairs.

  I take a breath and run through the blood, chasing after Mary into the blinding heat of the day.

  Chapter Nine

  “You feeling alright then, Ruby?” Eve asks when we get back down to the salon.

  “Fine, thanks,” I say, lightly.

  “Good. I’m so sorry about what happened. It seems awful we were just talking about poor Katie the other day and then . . .” She sighs heavily. “Go and do the towels for me then, and Mary, you can get on the reception desk.”

  Later, as I take over shampooing duty, some of our regulars begin to bring in the latest gossip from Glebe House. I’m surprised it’s taken all morning to reach the lower end of town. Ancient Mrs Marchfield (short white hair) tells me that she’s heard two girls were murdered last night, Mrs Grey (tight brown curls and red nail polish) is sure that the murderer was caught this morning, and Mrs Acton (blonde and pretty) says she heard it on good authority, from her brother-in-law’s second cousin, that some poor girl was burnt at the stake last night, just like poor Lady Isabella.

  I hadn’t realised what hard going it must be for the police — all these conflicting stories, and none of them with more than the teeniest bit of truth. I rub up a soapy lather and then rinse through Mrs Acton’s long hair. She’s pretty old but loves to tell us she’s never had one single grey hair. Johnnie says she uses a bit of yellowing bleach or dye at home to keep any spouting signs of ageing under control, but surely it’s weird to lie to your hairdresser? A bit like lying to your doctor. There’s no point.

  When I finally leave the basins and start the inevitable floor sweeping, I hear the door ping. It must be the police. I grip my brush tighter, and exchange glances with Mary, who’s polishing the mirrors. But instead of the policemen I was expecting, a dark-haired teenager in baggy purple trousers rushes in. “Here you go! These are for Johnnie. Mads said you wanted them in a hurry!”

  “I’ll sign for them.” Eve carefully prints her name on the delivery note, and studies the package without opening it.

  “Oh, those must be the photos Johnnie took for the window adverts and the style books. Can we have a look, Eve?” Mary has been pretty subdued all day but she finally manages a smile.

  “Weeelllll . . .” Eve looks at Catherine, and I think she’s going to say no, just for the sake of it, but she surprises both of us. “You’ve had a bad day, so why not?”

  She rips open the package and glossy prints tumble out. I stare at the huge pictures. The blow-ups of our fun afternoon are massive, at least five feet square. Every detail’s magnified. I don’t look like me, but some huge-eyed model, all cheekbones, lips and naughtiness. The last print is hidden underneath, carefully wrapped in brown paper.

  Eve lifts it out, and almost smiles. This picture is smaller, and already framed in white wood. Me, laughing with Mary, with the cherub mirrors in the background.

  Linda was still alive then. The thought hits me so hard, it almost physically winds me. She should still be finishing work and thinking about what to wear, about whether she should actually date Ted, or how to do her hair.

  “What a lovely memento for our new home. Our first picture.” Mary winks at me. But her face is lined with exhaustion and worry.

  The police appear just as we are closing up, and it isn’t Inspector Hammond and WPC Eileen Stanton, but two younger men, who are clearly excited to be working a murder case. They could be twins — both fair-haired, blue-eyed and around my age — and introduce themselves as Constables Billings and Benton, which makes me blink in confusion. I silently christen them Bill and Ben.

  Mary sits with Ben while Eve and Catherine make tea and hang around “finishing up.”

  “I did think of one more thing after I spoke to Inspector Hammond,” I tell Bill. He is busy scribbling in his notebook and looks up, all eager and over-keen, like a dog ready for a walk. “I know it sounds crazy, but one of our friends had a box of Tarot cards, and when Linda picked her cards one of them was Death.”

  I feel stupid for mentioning it, but the man nods, slightly patronisingly. “I think it’s unlikely that a Tarot card has any influence over your friend’s life or death, but I’ll note it down anyway.”

  I can tell he’s disappointed that I haven’t come up with anything more exciting, but I can’t help but feel a bit resentful that this man is so excited that Linda is dead. It feels personal, even though I know it isn’t. He’s doing his job, like I’m doing mine.

  “Thank you, ladies, that was very useful, and if you could drop that list of names in as soon as possible, it would help us to eliminate suspects,” Ben tells us. Their polished black boots clomp off down the hill.

  To my surprise, Eve is unimpressed with the law. “Those two young idiots have got about as much chance of solving a murder case as they have of running the country. One of them is Sarah’s nephew — you know her, don’t you, Catherine, from Eastern Road? I haven’t seen him since he was in shorts, but he hasn’t changed a bit. Bet he’s still got grubby knees too.” She pushes us all outside and locks the salon securely, dropping the keys into her vast brown handbag.

  For some reason this is wildly funny and when I start laughing, I can’t stop. I lean against the railings doubled up with hysterics. Mary giggles. Eve and Catherine look at us with more sympathy than usual.

  “Tell you what, girls, why don’t you go and get yourselves some dinner and then get an early night? It’ll all look better in the morning,” Eve presses some coins into Mary’s hand and brushes aside our thanks.

  They head off up the hill into the dusty evening. “Was she just nice to us?” I ask.

  Mary uncurls her hand. “She was, and she gave us food money, which means we can feast tonight.”

  We head to Brenda’s Café for a comforting cup of tea and fish and chips drenched in salt and vinegar. Brenda, a huge cosy woman, bustles over, coos over my new hairstyle and then leaves us to it, clearly delighted we can actually pay this time.

  I lick my fingers and dig into the flaky fish, while Mary devours chips at a great rate. At last, feeling pleasantly full for once, I lean back in my chair. The sunshine warms my shoulders, and I dip my finger into stray grains of salt, idly making swirling patterns on the grey Formica table.

 
Eventually, Mary too finishes her feast, and starts playing with the dirty salt and pepper pots in a little plastic cage at the centre of the table. “So what do we do now?” she asks.

  I suck a salty finger, squinting along the promenade at the blue horizon. The heat haze swirls above the road, and a man is walking along the front with great frothy mounds of pink candyfloss. The A-board on the pavement next to us reads ‘Best Brighton Rock,’ and I have a sudden craving for the sickly candy. Instead, I light a cigarette and push the half-empty packet across the table to Mary.

  “My poor darlings!” Johnnie descends in a whirl of tweed and expensive aftershave, disturbing quieter customers. “I got your message, but the line was permanently engaged at the salon, so I called Kenny. So useful to have a friend in the newspaper business. Anyway he said that Linda was—” he drags out a plastic chair and sinks down at our table, fanning himself with a paper napkin. “Christ, it’s hot today — he said Linda was murdered this morning at the Witch Stone, and her body was found by a local girl. So Mary’s rather confusingly cryptic message saying that Ruby had been involved in an accident finally made perfect sense. Sort of.”

  “Well, I could hardly have left a message with your housekeeper saying one of your friends had been murdered and another of your friends, who is also an employee at your salon, had discovered the body, could I?”

  “Good point.” Johnnie nods at Brenda and orders a cup of tea and some chips. “I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it.” Despite his usual bounce and affectations, his face is pale under the tan.

  “Johnnie, can I ask you something?” Mary asks suddenly.

  “You want to know why I run a hairdressing salon but have a housekeeper in London?”

  She stirs her tea, clinking the spoon against the chipped mug, adding more milk from the blue jug. “Sort of.”

  “Darling, I may be posh but I’m a bit broke. Everyone in my family is. We all do the King’s Road and Claridges thing, but I don’t think my father even owns the house anymore. The bank will do very well when he finally hands in his chips. But we all accept that.” A shadow crosses his face. “Apart from my brother, of course, but that’s another story.”

  I wonder for a moment what Johnnie’s house is like. I imagine one of those grand terrace affairs. A perfect slice of iced cake with swirly decorations across the plasterwork outside. The hallway would be vast and chequered with black-and-white tiles, and the housekeeper would answer the door in a black dress and white apron.

  “Do you really have a housekeeper?” Mary sighs enviously. She’s clearly imagining her own life of luxury, and it’s my turn to giggle.

  “I do. Well, my parents do actually. But shall I tell you a secret, angel? My family don’t actually have any money at all. Lots of us don’t, but we still have the trappings. All those old-school glamour-pusses, pretending like mad everything’s still like it was before the war, and life is just one big, gay whirl. Most of them are mortgaged up to the eyeballs, down to their last pound. Can one get away with that in the same sentence? Because it describes us exactly.”

  I’ve never heard him so serious, but I have to admire his courage. It must take guts to break out of a family like that, especially to run a hairdressing salon in Brighton. I imagine he’s not the favourite son.

  As though he follows my thoughts Johnnie finishes, “That’s why I had to get away, because times are changing and families like mine are not. We’re a dinosaur breed and unless we adapt we’ll die.”

  It’s clearly time for a subject change, and to stop dancing around the main topic, I think. “So what are we going to do now? The police told us to make a list of everyone who was at the picnic last night so they can ‘eliminate them from their enquiries,’ but we don’t have all the addresses and phone numbers.” I look expectantly at Johnnie and he nods briskly.

  “I’ve got hold of all our usual gang, and we’ll meet on the beach tonight at eight to talk it out. Between us someone may remember something useful.” Johnnie looks serious for once. “I don’t trust the police so we’ll do this our way. Linda didn’t deserve this, any more than you deserved to find her body.”

  “I keep seeing her at the back of my mind,” I admit. “The policeman kept asking about who was at the picnic last night, like it could have been one of us who killed her. But there were loads of people there that I don’t know, and surely it’s just as likely to be some random loony.”

  The other two digest this in silence, and Johnnie merely repeats that he doesn’t want to say more than we have to around the police, because he “doesn’t trust them.”

  We leave a good tip for Brenda, and wander back up to the salon. It’s nice to feel a cool breeze. I kick a dropped chip towards one of the seagulls you get everywhere here. “Vile creatures. Don’t encourage vermin, Ruby! I’ll make some telephone calls, and see you down from the Palace Pier, opposite the hotdog stands, at eight,” Johnnie says. A quick kiss each, and he’s off.

  We watch his car race off up the hill, threading through the traffic, dodging vans, and straggling pedestrians.

  Mary takes my hand. “So where does Johnnie live when he’s in Brighton, if he has a grand family home in London?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I suppose with a boyfriend or something?”

  She nods slowly, eyes wide. “Really? Do you think he’s, you know, queer?”

  “I don’t know. Would that be so bad? Pearl said something ages go, and I was a bit shocked, but now I’ve had time to think about it. . . why shouldn’t he have a private life?”

  Mary’s gone bright red. It’s clearly even more of a shock for her. “But that’s illegal.”

  “But it’s up to him, isn’t it?”

  “It still seems wrong.”

  “Come on, let’s get changed,” I give her a gentle push so she stops staring at me, and open our door.

  Halfway up the stairs she stops, and puts a hand to her stomach. “Mary? Are you alright?” But she looks glowing and excited when she turns round.

  “Rubes, I think I just felt the baby move! It was a sort of fluttering, like it just turned over or something.”

  “Wow! How exciting. Really? Isn’t it a bit early, although maybe you’re further along than you think? We should ask Pearl.”

  Mary’s thin face is radiant. “Well, it was either the baby moving or wind after all those chips — heavens, I still can’t believe I’m going to be a mum!”

  Out of habit we pull on our party clothes, adding little pastel cardigans against the chill of the sea breeze. I fish around in my bag for a long fake pearl necklace. My fingers touch the two signet rings. Two rings and two dead bodies. I slam the door shut on that one for the moment. Am I afraid of the police thinking I’m insane or is it really that I’m terrified of finding myself arrested for murder?

  “Ruby, I said ‘are you ready?’”

  I’m about to answer when I hear loud knocking on our outer door, and freeze.

  Mary cranes out of the window but shakes her head. “I can’t see far enough round the corner. But it’s broad daylight with loads of people walking up and down the street.”

  “Okay. We’ll both go down.”

  The knocking is louder now, and we go out together, locking our inner door securely before we walk down the stairs. “Who is it?” I shout.

  “Police!”

  “Well, they could have bloody well said so before. I feel sick, I’m so scared!” Mary hisses in my ear.

  I swing the door open, trying to smile and to quiet my thundering heartbeat. It’s one of the young officers from earlier. “Miss Baker? We found a purse near to the murder scene that matches the description of the one you lost. Can we ask you to come down to the station and identify it?”

  “Couldn’t you just drop it off here?” Mary asks.

  “No, miss. You see, Miss Baker needs to formally identify the item, and sign for it.” The officer beams at us. “I have the car parked out the front, so would you like to accompany me now?�
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  The police car smells of sweat and cigarettes. It feels odd to be sitting in the back, but we’re not under arrest or anything. The driver eventually pulls neatly in at the police station, an imposing and deceptively elegant building which looks more like the kind of grand old residence that Johnnie’s parents would live in.

  We are asked to wait, and sit down on a couple of grey plastic chairs. My nerves are jangling, but Mary seems as serene as ever, humming a little tune, and glancing at her watch.

  “I hope they hurry up. We’re going to be late meeting Johnnie.” She lowers her voice. “Do you think that’s why he doesn’t like the police? You know, because he’s queer?”

  I hug my cardigan around me, and rub my arms, “Probably. I mean like you said, it’s illegal, so the last thing he would want is any trouble. Or maybe it’s because he just wants to figure it out himself. It’s personal, isn’t it? Linda was one of our friends.”

  “I wonder if he knew Katie — you know, the girl from last year?”

  “Probably. Brighton is smaller than people think. James knew her.” I keep my voice low.

  “Did he?”

  “He said so at the picnic.”

  Some drunk men yell from the cells. The desk sergeant stomps down the corridor and bangs on their doors, telling them to be quiet. It works for about ten minutes, before they start up the racket again. A headache is nudging at the base of my skull, and after being all fired up from Johnnie’s pep-talk about finding Linda’s killer, I’m now just totally exhausted. It takes half an hour till a beady-looking woman takes us through to a narrow grey room which stinks of urine and has scuffed floors.

  My white plastic purse with the flower on the front is in a clear bag. I sign for it as quickly as I can.

  “Just one more thing, Miss Baker. You need to sign for the contents as well,” the policewoman tells me. She empties a plastic bag onto the table.

  I poke around in the little pile. A couple of lipsticks, including my favourite, a pound, and a few pennies. My brass house keys. I breathe a sigh of relief and Mary smiles at me. My house keys are safe. But there’s something else. A cheap silver coloured locket, a bit like the one I have with the picture of my sisters and me hidden inside.