by Ann Troup
Matt sat on the edge of his bed, carefully stitching the handle back onto his satchel. It had annoyed him no end that the girl had wrecked it, the bag was an old and faithful friend, one of the few things that Matt had hung onto throughout his life. The bag and his obsession were his lifelong companions, familiar and comforting when nothing else was. The girl had got to him in more ways than one; there had been a flash of recognition, something familiar in her features that had rattled his psyche. He was sure he’d seen her before, and not just from around the square. There were few people who frequented the square that he didn’t know of, but he flagged them by their movements and habits, not by their faces. It didn’t do to get too up close and personal with people’s faces. He’d learned that in the forces, to watch what people did and use all resources to avoid relating to them. If you studied a face, you studied a person. It was harder to shoot a person than it was to assess a set of circumstances, make a decision and take action. For Matt it was important to keep things separate and maintain dispassion. He wasn’t feeling particularly dispassionate about Edie though, she was occupying his thoughts far more than she ought to. He’d tried to categorise her as a means to an end, a conduit to the information he wanted, but he couldn’t escape that stupid memory of her as a child when she’d stuck her neck out against the bullies and offered him a sweet. Of all the things to remember – a throwaway incident, which should mean nothing yet it was wriggling around in his mind like a parasite feeding on his concentration. Edie had to be a means to an end, and nothing more. He finished his stitching and bit the end of the thread then put away his sewing kit, wishing that he could stow his thoughts of Edie so simply. She had got under his skin and he didn’t know why.
Chapter Nine
Sophie hadn’t realised how hungry she’d really been until she had started eating properly again. Edie’s nurturing was waking up an appetite for food that she’d forgotten she had. That, combined with the freshly laundered smell of her clothes, a decent night’s sleep and clean skin for a change were all amalgamating to make her feel almost happy. If that was the appropriate name for the benign feeling that started in her belly and spread out from there. She figured it must be, because when it hit her on the outside it triggered a smile, which made her face ache – the necessary muscles being wholly unfamiliar with the movement.
Edie took her dirty plate and matched her smile. ‘You look happy this morning, what’s occurred?’
‘Nothing, just thinking, that’s all.’
Edie placed the plate into the sink and turned towards Sophie. ‘Yeah? What are you thinking about, I’ll give you a penny for them?’
Personally Sophie would have preferred a tenner, but her thoughts weren’t worth that. ‘I was thinking about how much I like bacon and eggs and how nice it is to be clean and sleep in a bed.’
Edie laughed. ‘Maybe we should all think about the little things from time to time.’
‘They might be little to you missus, but believe me, they’re not little to me.’
Edie paused and looked a little crestfallen, as if it hadn’t occurred to her that such simple things might be big. ‘That’s a fair point. Sorry. Anyhow, what are your plans today? I’m going out for a bit as I have a few things to do, then I thought we could tackle the rest of Dolly’s room – if you’re up to it?’
Sophie sipped her now tepid coffee. ‘What, clean up Miss Havisham’s lair? Sure, why not?’ she grimaced to show her relish for the prospect. ‘I’m going to go out first though, but I’ll help when I get back.’
‘Yeah, where are you off to, anywhere nice?’
Sophie tried be nonchalant and hoped it would transfer to her voice. ‘Not really, just got a few things to do that’s all.’ Fortunately Edie had her back to her, and couldn’t see the lie that was written all over her face.
‘OK, meet you back here then? Take a key won’t you, I need to start locking this place up.’
‘What for, to keep people out, or to keep things in?’ Sophie quipped. She wasn’t quite sure where the flippant comment had come from, but the slight stiffening of Edie’s spine told her she must have a hit a nerve. ‘Sorry, I’m just being a dick, it’s just that this place is a bit creepy eh?’
Edie turned and sighed, bubbles from the washing up bowl dripping from her fingers. ‘Well, it certainly isn’t the cosiest place on earth. But there aren’t any ghosts here, and even if there were, they wouldn’t do us any harm. My family might have been a bit odd, but I don’t think they were dangerous.’
Sophie nearly snorted her coffee and narrowly stopped herself from choking. Edie had no idea, no idea at all. ‘Sorry,’ she spluttered, ‘went down the wrong way.’
Sophie was sure that the slats of the bench she was sitting on had made permanent indentations in her skinny backside, she’d been perched there so long waiting for the guy to go out that she was convinced she would have disfiguring ridges in her ass for life. Finally, after an hour and a half of waiting, she spied him coming out of his front door and walking off out of the square. Thank bloody God for that!
Rising stiffly, and still acutely aware of the ache in her ribs, she scuttled across the grass of the central garden and made her way across the street and around to the back of the building where the guy lived. These houses backed straight onto a rear alley; there were no fences or gates, just dustbins, flat roofs and easy access. Sophie had spent too many years being the latchkey kid without a key not to have mastered the rudimentary basics of housebreaking. By the time she was sixteen she could have written the idiot’s guide to getting in without getting caught. People were so unaware of how vulnerable their properties were, they thought if you shut the windows and locked the door, you were safe. You were only as safe as the next opportunistic housebreaker wanted you to be. To Sophie, whoever this bloke might think he was, his domestic security was ‘open season’. It took the simple moving of a wheeled bin, a quick clamber onto the flat roof and the use of one of Dolly’s bone handled knives as a jemmy to get her into the building. Once she was on the first floor landing, it was an even simpler task to find which bedsit was his – he was no dope smoker, so his room wasn’t going to be the one which emanated a fug of marijuana, neither was it going to be the one with the empty Special Brew cans piled outside the door.
The only good thing about slum landlords from Sophie’s point of view was that they used cheap materials and cheap locks. With a bit of fiddling, pretty much any old bent bit of wire would open a basic three lever mortise lock, you just had to get a feel for it, stroke the levers and listen for the sweet point where they would give. She had tumbled the lock in less than thirty seconds and was in the room with the door quietly closed behind her in forty-five. She knew she had the right room when she spied the leather bag on the floor by his neatly made bed, and was even more sure when she spotted Beattie’s old tin and the notebook sitting on the desk. However, it wasn’t those items that surprised her – or made her take a step back before curiosity got the better of her and she ventured to take a closer look.
The whole place had been set up like an incident room, not that Sophie had ever been in an incident room, but she’d seen enough of them on the telly to know what one looked like. A huge map of Winfield took up most of the wall above the desk, surrounding it were old newspaper pictures of the women who had been killed in the square. It seemed bizarre to Sophie that anyone would still be interested – it had all happened so many years ago that God’s dog must have been a puppy at the time. Piles of folders were heaped on the desk and she was tempted to take a peek but knew that she wouldn’t be able to put them back properly and that he would guess someone had been inside rummaging. Red strings spanned the map connecting various locations to the pictures of the women and he had Post-it notes scattered everywhere – this guy was some kind of obsessive weirdo! Peering intently at the map and staring at the pin that pierced the red marked heart of Number 17 she heard a click behind her and froze.
‘Are you robbing me or stalking me?�
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For some reason, like a little kid, and just for a moment, she figured that if she didn’t turn around and face him time would stand still and she’d be able to think of a way out. Like, if she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her. Christ, she could be pathetic sometimes.
‘I asked you a question. Are you going to answer or shall I just call the police?’
He didn’t sound that angry, just weary. She had to say something. ‘You know they won’t come, this is Coronation Square, they never come. Besides, with this little lot in here they’d be more interested in you than they would in me, mister.’ God knows where her bravado came from because it sure as hell didn’t come from her conscious mind.
‘You’re probably right, but that cuts both ways doesn’t it? It also means that they won’t come if I deal with this myself… now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing, or do I need to deal with you?’
Sophie didn’t have a clue what he might mean by that, but the tone of his voice had altered – he was getting angry, and she had no choice but to turn around and face what was coming. He stood there, feet planted firmly apart, a carrier bag at his side. He’d only been out to buy milk and bread and she’d been an idiot not to realise it. ‘I bumped into you and broke your bag – you’d taken stuff from Edie’s house, stuff we’d thrown away. I wanted to know what kind of person did that shit.’ The words came tumbling out like vomit. He said nothing, just stood there, staring at her, with a muscle twitching in his jaw worryingly. Her stomach began to gurgle as adrenaline started to take hold. ‘What are you going to do?’ she rasped, fear mounting. He took a step forward and she winced, squashing herself against the desk and squeezing her eyes shut, despite the fact that it still hurt like hell from the last beating.
‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m not going to hit you! Though I probably should.’
She opened one eye, just to check. He was holding the tin and wrenching the lid off. ‘Do you know what this is?’
She nodded. ‘I do now, but I didn’t when I found it.’
‘Where did you find it and tell me what you think it is.’
‘I found it in the house, under a floorboard. It’s what she used to do the abortions.’
‘What who used? And how did you find out?’ His voice was staccato and demanding. Sophie felt like she had no choice but to answer him.
‘It was in Beattie’s room, I found a bit of newspaper which said she’d gone to prison, I went to the library and looked it up.’
He leaned forward and loomed over her, he hadn’t seemed that tall before and she could feel his breath on her face. ‘What kind of person does that shit?’ he said.
She winced again, and shied away from him.
The movement seemed to have some kind of weird effect on him, and in a heartbeat the animosity had gone, he was rubbing his face with his hand and shaking his head as if he was laughing at her. ‘The kind of people who do this shit are people like you and me. Nosy people, people who want answers. People who want to know the truth. Do you want to know the truth?’
Sophie didn’t know what to say, so she shrugged. ‘I dunno.’
He turned away from the desk and leaned down to pick up the carrier bag. ‘I want to know the truth, and I think I’m close to finding it.’ He took out the milk and bread and put them on the tiny square of worktop that, along with a small sink, made up the bulk of what might be called a kitchen. ‘Do you know who those women are? The ones in the pictures?’
Sophie turned and glanced back at the black and white faces that peppered the wall around the map. ‘They’re the women who were killed around here years ago.’
He was filling the kettle and switching it on. ‘Yes they are. Anne Townsend, Jean Lockwood, Mary McGowan, Elizabeth Rees and Sally Pollett. Do you know the story?’
Sophie shrugged again, not entirely ready to relax, though she figured psychos didn’t make coffee before beating up intruders. ‘Vaguely. Can’t avoid it round here, not with those tours every day.’
‘Yes, the tours. Anyway, what’s your name and do you take sugar?’
Sophie noticed that her hands were still clamped to the desk, the knuckles white like bone. ‘Sophie and no, thanks.’
‘Good, because I haven’t got any. Well Sophie, let’s have a coffee and I’ll make it a bit less vague for you. You can let go of the desk now, it’s safe to sit down.’
She did as she was told and hunched herself into the desk chair, transferring her grip from the edge of the desk to the arms of the chair. She couldn’t quite make this guy out; he didn’t seem dangerous, but he was definitely weird, either that or he thought her housebreaking efforts were a joke. He placed a mug of coffee on the desk and she gave him a stilted smile, more from instinct than anything else. Nothing about this surreal situation was making her want to smile for real. ‘Why are you being nice to me?’
‘I’m not, I’m just being sanguine and phlegmatic about the situation. Besides, I’m hoping you’ll help me out when you understand.’
‘Understand what?’
He waved at the wall behind her, ‘That, and what it’s all about.’
‘It’s up to you what you do for a hobby, I just wanted to know why you were nicking our rubbish.’
‘Well that’s the thing isn’t it, it’s not rubbish to me, it’s evidence.’
Sophie’s curiosity was getting the better of her wariness. ‘Evidence of what? I found out about old Ma Morris just from going to the library, it was hardly Britain’s best kept secret.’
‘Cocky aren’t you? For someone who breaks into other people’s homes that is.’
She shrugged and watched him take a sip of his coffee, the smug bastard. ‘You said you wanted me to help, what’s that – some kind of bribery? I help you and you don’t do me for breaking in?’
‘Something like that. Tell me what you know about the murders.’
‘Not much – some women got killed a long time ago, some bloke got hanged for it, job’s a good un.’
‘Simple as that eh?’ he said, with a wry laugh. ‘Well that “bloke” was my father, and he didn’t do it. They hanged him and he didn’t do it.’
Sophie stared at him, trying to see if she could spot the essence of murder in his face, wondering if that kind of thing ran in his family. ‘Wow, that’s a bit shit eh?’
He pulled a face and looked at her. ‘Just a bit, yeah. Let’s just say that growing up around here wasn’t much fun after that.’
Sophie could imagine, the place was a shithole full of shit people even without being the kid of a killer. ‘So what makes you think he didn’t do it? I mean you’re bound to think that, him being your dad and all. But sorry mate, I don’t want to believe my mum’s a skank, but she is.’
He got up and walked towards her, for a moment she thought she’d pushed her luck and that he was going to smack her one. Her heart was pounding loud enough to have been good for a Salvation Army band when he leaned across her and picked up the notebook. ‘This. It proves my theory.’ He walked back over to the bed and sat down, flicking through the pages of the book. ‘Initials, dates, amounts. I think this was Beattie’s record book of all the abortions she performed. The initials of every single one of those women up there appears in this book.’
Sophie had no idea what his theory might be, but he certainly seemed obsessed by it. ‘Not being funny mate, but chances are my initials are in that book. It don’t mean nothing.’
‘Take a look at that scarf hanging there, and compare it to the photograph. That came out of Number 17 a few days ago.’
She did as she was told, figuring she’d be best off humouring him for now. ‘Oh yeah, it looks the same.’ She agreed. ‘So you reckon these women all went to see Beattie because they were in trouble?’ It was the only conclusion she could draw from what he was saying.
‘I think so, yes.’
Sophie scanned the wall, looking at the faces of the women. ‘Well, that just tells you they were in trouble, and you can’t even prov
e that from a bunch of initials in a scabby old book. As for the scarf, probably loads of people had them and Dolly was like a magpie for shite like that.’ Her voice tailed off as her eyes came to rest on the last picture. A dark haired girl, all curls and cute, beamed out from the grainy, yellowed image. It was a head and shoulders shot, the kind that was taken in a studio and got framed to take pride of place on the mantelpiece. Sophie could imagine the girl’s parents taking it down and handing it to the police in a moment of desperate hope, the father stoic and grim, the mother tearful and clutching a handkerchief. What struck her most about the picture wasn’t the wide eyed innocence of the girl, or the mind’s eye picture of her sorrowful family, but the familiarity of a certain feature. ‘Which one is this?’ she asked, pointing to the picture and turning to the man.
‘Sally Pollett, she was the last, why?’
Sophie didn’t answer. Instead she undid her jacket, reached a hand inside her T-shirt and hooked the gold chain with its locket out from where it nestled in her cleavage. ‘I got something you might want mate.’
For a second or two Matt thought the girl was coming on to him, perhaps she thought stripping off like that was her get-out-of-jail-free card. He was just about to protest that he was old enough to be her father and that wasn’t what he wanted when he realised what she was doing. She wasn’t trying it on at all, she was trying to show him something.