by Ann Troup
As she hung up her coat she thought about his dinner date with Edie and wondered at exactly which point in his life he had ceased to take notice of his mother. She had been adamant with him about Edie Byrne, but he’d ignored her. Lena’s control over things seemed to be slipping in so many ways and she wasn’t sure whether to keep fighting and keep a grip on it, or just let it slide. Hanging on to things was such hard work. Maybe it didn’t matter, what they didn’t know couldn’t bother them, despite how much it bothered her… That was the problem when you had sold your soul to the Devil, the small print always got neglected and came back to bite you in the backside when you least expected it. Looking at him now – Sam Campion, all full of himself, all knowing, fingers in pies that should never have been baked, friends with people who could barely be categorised as human in Lena’s eyes – she wondered if the bargain she had made had ever been worth it?
Edie scanned the menu, translating as she went – confit of pig’s belly served on a bed of crushed potato with baby vegetables and a red wine jus could be interpreted as cheap fatty belly pork, mash, peas and gravy. She often wondered if these restaurants traded on their pretensions more strenuously than they traded on their reputations. Eventually she chose a simple Caesar salad and thanked the heavens that she wasn’t the one paying fifteen pounds for a bit of lettuce and a few shavings of Parmesan.
She had dressed in one of Dolly’s old dresses found hanging in the wardrobe, a pretty fifties style vintage thing teamed with a pair of authentic Mary Janes. She could hardly have shown up in her jeans and a T-shirt and hadn’t thought to bring anything else with her. You didn’t clear out a house wearing a cocktail dress. Dolly’s dress held the faint, acrid taint of mothballs and despite having doused it with fabric freshener, the smell still tingled and tickled at the back of her throat.
‘You look lovely, by the way.’ Sam had said when she’d climbed into his car. She’d thanked him and opened the window lest the whiff of camphor put him off.
He’d chosen this elegant gastro pub on the outskirts of Winfield, assumedly to impress her with his taste and wallet. Looking around at all the slate, bare brick and brass neck of the place she wondered what kind of impression he had formed about her. Simon had been one for what he considered good taste and showing what he was worth, but Edie had spent far too long keeping up appearances. Pretension wasn’t part of her make up, but politeness was. ‘Nice place, have they done it up recently?’ She vaguely remembered the pub as being a rundown bikers’ haunt.
‘A couple of years ago, my company did the renovation.’
That figured, Edie thought, evilly wishing she’d ordered the fillet steak Rossini now that it was clear that Sam’s bill would likely never find its way to the table. ‘It’s very nice, you did a good job.’ She said before taking a sip of the wine he had insisted on ordering. Edie wasn’t a wine fan and felt that most of it would taste better sprinkled on a bag of chips than it did from a glass.
Sam smirked. ‘It’s been a long time since I needed to wield a hammer, Edie.’
To her annoyance she felt herself blush. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
He treated her to a radiant smile. ‘I know, I’m only joking with you. But there is something I wanted to talk to you about.’
Edie’s curiosity was interrupted by the arrival of their food, her salad sparse and elegant, served in a flared dish bigger than a fruit bowl, his a blue steak, seeping blood and practically still mooing. She watched him slice into it and take a bite, a tiny trickle of blood dribbling from the corner his mouth; it made him look like a character from an Anne Rice novel. ‘Good steak?’ she asked, suppressing the giggle that threatened to ruin the mood should she have to explain it.
‘Excellent. How’s your salad?’
‘Lovely.’ Or as lovely as a mouthful of lettuce, some toasted stale bread and cheese could be. The wine, sour and acrid, helped to wash it down.
When he seemed to be nearing the end of his meal she pressed him. ‘So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’
He chased the last smear of blood around the plate with a hand cut chip. ‘I have a solution for you. I know how much of an ordeal clearing the house is for you, so I want to buy it. Cash on the table and you can pack up and walk away tomorrow, leave everything as it is – and trust me to keep anything that might be of sentimental value or of any importance, of course.’ He leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘Dealing with all that just isn’t fair on you, this way you get a simple, straightforward sale and I get a property I can develop and sell on. It’s a win win, Edie.’ He squeezed her fingers and smiled at her as if it was a done deal.
Acutely conscious of the warmth of his skin and the pressure of his fingers, Edie tried to return the smile, but hers was hesitant and apologetic. If things had been different – had Dolly not muddied the waters with her strange financial shenanigans – Edie would have bitten Sam’s hand off, taken his money and run. ‘Oh Sam, that’s massively kind and generous of you, but I can’t accept. Not only does it seem that the house is riddled with dry rot and God knows what else, but we can’t sell it because it doesn’t belong to us. According to the solicitor, Dolly took out some kind of secured loan, like an equity release deal, and the house belongs to the finance company. Rose and I had no idea and neither did the solicitor until he requested the deeds and saw that there was a charge against the property. All I’m required to do is clear it as soon as possible so that they can take possession. I really do appreciate the offer though Sam, thank you.’
She had been expecting a quiet shrug of resignation, an “oh well, it was just a thought” comment, so it came as quite a shock when he abruptly let go of her hand, flopped back in his chair, and scrubbed his brow with a hand that she could swear was trembling. He was visibly trying to suppress his anger. To anyone else he might look like a man who had simply eaten too much and who was leaning back to ease his full belly. Edie had spent too many years around a volatile, angry man not to recognise the signs for what they were. Sam was desperately trying to contain his temper. ‘I’m really sorry Sam, like I said, I didn’t know.’ It came out as if her mouth and brain were on some kind of autopilot, with a default setting of ‘pacify at all costs’.
‘You’re kidding me, right? There has to be some way round this, I want the house Edie.’ He said it as though she might have some control over the situation and could change it on a whim.
She was about to reply, to reiterate the situation, when his phone rang, the ringtone whining out of his pocket in an irritating spurt of synthesised sound. He reached for it, looked at the screen and frowned. ‘I have to take this.’
Edie nodded, relieved at the interruption and that he had chosen to walk outside to take the call. A waitress came over to the table and started to clear the plates, ‘Was everything all right for you madam?’
‘Lovely, thank you.’ Edie lied.
‘Would you like to see the dessert menu?’
A glance outside revealed Sam pacing and gesturing as he talked into the phone. ‘I don’t think so thank you, it looks as though we won’t get time,’ she said with a smile to the girl. ‘Perhaps you could bring the bill?’
‘Oh, there’s no charge for Mr Campion and his guests, madam, you can have whatever you like with the manager’s compliments.’
Edie didn’t doubt it for a minute, though she did doubt that the generosity came with any compliments – possibly a grudging sense of obligation at most. As for whatever she’d like, a waiting taxi might have been helpful. The thought of sharing the journey home with an angry and upset Sam was about as unpleasant and sour as the wine that she continued to sip to keep up appearances.
When Sam returned his demeanour had completely altered and he was back to the affable and charming man that she had arrived with. ‘Sorry about that, but something has come up. Do you mind if we cut short the rest of the evening and do it again another time?’
Edie was convinced that her relief must be tangible, and fought to
hide it while she bent down to retrieve her bag. ‘Of course not.’ She said while slipping her way into the jacket that Sam was holding up for her in the most gentlemanly manner. ‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ she added, deliberately stifling the instinctive apology that wanted to burst from her mouth. Old habits died hard.
Matt had been fascinated by the wig blocks with their names and faces, yet more evidence that the Morris woman had known more about the murders than she had ever let on. But it wasn’t proof. Matt had enough clues, artefacts, ideas, theories and thoughts to argue a jury into next Thursday week, but he didn’t have proof. Had the murders been current he was sure that the police would have responded to Sophie’s discovery, and they might even have investigated. This many years after the event, and given that they fully believed that the right man had been caught and had paid the ultimate price, it was unlikely they would do any more than indulge the story and, with stifled politeness, only laugh at him when he was out of earshot. There had to be something more in this damned house, something that would prove beyond doubt that his father had been innocent of murder. There just had to be.
Sophie was showing him the baby clothes, but they didn’t fit into any hypothesis or scenario that he’d formed so he dismissed them as unimportant. ‘Probably made for Rose or Edie. Might as well put them back in the rubbish if Edie doesn’t want them.’
Sophie sighed. ‘I don’t think Edie wants much from here; she goes through the place like a dose of salts. I swear, if she had a flame thrower she’d blast the lot and be done with it.’
Looking at the piles of junk Matt was inclined to agree that it might be a relevant solution. Looking for proof in here was an experience akin to trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. He sighed and perched himself on the corner of the bed.
‘So the head things, they don’t prove much, is it?’ Sophie said.
‘Nothing new, no.’
Sophie lowered herself down onto the opposite corner of the bed, the orange squash light making her skin look sallow and unhealthy. ‘Why keep on with it, why keep looking after all these years? Even if your dad didn’t do it, no one’s coming back, and chances are whoever did is long gone.’
The kid made a fair point and it was one that Matt had pondered many times. ‘Principle I suppose. Payback? Loyalty? A promise I made to my mother. I don’t know, I just can’t let it go. I want some kind of apology I suppose, an acknowledgment that all those years of humiliation and persecution were wrong and that someone is prepared to admit it.’
Sophie looked pensive. ‘I get that, I suppose we all want to rewrite the past, I know I sure as hell do. But if you do prove it, say something does turn up that proves you right, what will you gain really? Won’t you just be passing the misery on to Edie, and she’ll be the one that has to carry the burden of it?’
This cocky child had a wisdom beyond her years, and a way of cutting through things and piercing the heart of them (somewhat painfully if Matt were honest). ‘Isn’t the truth supposed to set you free?’ he said tritely, it sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
Sophie snorted. ‘Yeah, it sets you free but cages someone else. Where’s the fairness in that?’
‘And where is the fairness in betraying my trust, Sophie?’ Edie’s voice cut across the room like the blade of a guillotine, severing the safety of the clandestine nature of Matt’s presence and causing Sophie’s face to drop its mask of bravado.
Matt stood as Edie walked into the room, her features showing hurt, confusion and betrayal. Sophie sat slumped, her face turned away from the door, though when Matt glanced at her he could see that she was biting her lip. ‘Edie!’
‘Yes, Edie. Would anyone mind explaining what you’re doing here? Sophie?’ Edie said, lips pursed, tone racketing up to angry.
‘I called over to apologise for upsetting you, Sophie invited me in. It’s not her fault, she wasn’t aware that we’d argued.’ Matt said, knowing that it was as lame an excuse as they came.
Edie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh really? She invited you into Dolly’s bedroom? Is there something I should know, Sophie?’
Matt stood silent for a moment, he had only just noticed the dress that Edie was wearing. Could it be the same one? ‘Where did you get that dress from?’
Edie looked at him, frustrated, impatient, getting more annoyed by the second. ‘What? You push your way into this house, take advantage of a young girl and you ask about my bloody dress?’
Bloody dress was more appropriate than she might have realised, though it was obvious that any blood had been washed away long ago. ‘Only it’s not your dress.’ He said.
Edie stiffened. ‘Gah! For God’s sake, what does the dress matter? I want to know what you’re doing here, and why you, Sophie, saw fit to let someone into the house without my permission!’
‘We were looking for something.’ Sophie mumbled.
‘Looking for what? And what – in this God forsaken house – could possibly interest you, Mr Bastin?’
Matt sighed. ‘I’ll go.’ Women scorned were not his forte, and though Edie hadn’t entirely lost control, she did look pretty pissed off.
‘Yes, I think that would be a very good idea.’ Edie’s response was stiff and made Matt feel as though he had seriously burned the last of his bridges with her.
For some reason the thought of him leaving seemed to galvanise Sophie, who stood up and turned to Edie. ‘No, let him stay. There’s stuff you need to know.’
‘And what precisely might that be Sophie? That I trusted you and you let me down at the first opportunity?’
It was Sophie’s turn to stiffen and battle with her temper. Matt needed to intervene, he needed to try and explain, if she threw him out afterwards, then so be it. ‘You need to know that the dress you’re wearing belonged to Elizabeth Rees, she was murdered – you’ve probably heard of her – she was found naked, raped and mutilated on a park bench in the square. Her clothes were never found, but I have a photograph of her wearing her best dress, the one she was wearing when she disappeared, and it’s identical to that one.’
Edie peered at him through narrowed eyelids, her brow furrowed in confusion.
‘And the locket that you gave to Sophie, it belonged to Sally Pollett, she was wearing it on the day she disappeared, then there’s the scarf that you threw away – it all fits Edie, someone in the house was responsible for the deaths of those girls.’
Sophie was hovering, pensive and worried. ‘There’s stuff you don’t know about Edie, we were just trying to help.’
A series of expressions flickered across Edie’s face as she did battle with her thoughts and feelings, for Matt it was like watching a pinball machine, the ball bearing of reason coming to rest at the only logical conclusion, then pinging off because the reality was too inconceivable for comfort. She stood like that for a long moment then she looked down at the dress. Without a word she turned and fled to the bathroom. Matt heard the bolt slide across the door and turned to Sophie. ‘I think you’d better go and put the kettle on, I don’t suppose there’s any brandy lying around is there?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Is she going to be all right?’
Matt returned the shrug and pointed towards the stairs. ‘Shall we?’
Edie sat on the lid of the toilet wearing just her bra and knickers, the dress lay in a colourful puddle on the grimy floor. She looked at it with a mixture of dismay and loathing. It couldn’t be right, it just couldn’t be. If her family had been involved in those murders the police would have known, they would have worked it out and investigated, they did all of those things and caught the culprit. It was clear that Matt Bastin wanted it not to have been his father, but it had been. Dresses were dresses, chances are Dolly had just bought the same one from a market stall or a local shop –Matt Bastin was barking up the wrong tree and causing a lot of upset because of it. Sure, she understood, who wouldn’t want to distance themselves from that kind of family history, she knew for a fact that his life hadn’t be
en easy because of what his father had done, but trying to pass the parcel of blame to someone else was just pathetic. And unfair, deeply unfair. Who on earth did he think had done it? Dolly had been a sweet, eccentric gentle soul, obsessed with her wigs. It was clear that she’d had her magpie tendencies, lining her nest with whatever kitsch she could lay her hands on, but they were hardly the signs of a murderous soul. Perhaps he though it had been Dickie, an even quieter soul than his sister and only happy on his own, away from others and making his little mechanical toys. From what Edie could remember of her, Beattie has been a stoic, withdrawn and harsh woman – God-fearing, resolute and the least likely mass murderer Edie could bring to mind. The whole thing was ridiculous; Matt had just picked a scapegoat and had moulded things to fit. A dress proved nothing, neither did a locket, or a scarf for that matter; all of those things were ten a penny.
She prodded the dress with her foot and bent to pick it up, as if handling the fabric might yield some truth by means of psychometry. She put it to her face and breathed in, it smelled of age, camphor and fabric freshener. She had stripped it off so quickly it was still inside out, the neatly finished seams holding their colour where the other fabric had not. They were hand finished, turned and stitched in a precise and meticulous hand by someone who had taken pride in their work. This dress had not been bought; it had been made. The hem was held up with tiny, almost invisible stitches, the buttonholes were exquisitely done, all by hand. It was unique, a one off. The realisation of it forced Edie to fling it away from her and wipe her face on the still damp flannel that lay on the edge of the bath, as if the gesture could erase the contact with the fabric. As the dress fell, she spotted the yoke – where the label would be in a shop bought dress, there were two carefully embroidered initials – ER. Edie’s world seemed to lurch to the side, she felt dizzy and disorientated, as if everything she knew had shifted position and looked ugly and unfamiliar in its new place. The wine she had drunk with Sam roiled in her stomach, meshing with the watery salad and announcing its re-arrival with a painful, unstoppable yaw of retching.