Who Killed Ruby

by Camilla Way

  Then, as though it’s just occurred to her, ‘By the way, were the Fairbanks living at number two when you moved in?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, the Cockles – that’s the family who live there now – they’d already been here a while before we came.’

  Viv nods. ‘And how about the people at number one? Did they ever talk about the Fairbanks?’

  She shrugs. ‘Not that I can remember. Think the Fairbanks must have moved out a long time ago, like you.’

  ‘I see,’ Vivienne says, swallowing her disappointment. After a pause, she asks as casually as she can, ‘Would you mind if I used your loo?’

  ‘Of course, it’s up the stairs, first on the—’ She stops and laughs. ‘What am I saying? I don’t need to tell you that, do I?’

  Once she’s upstairs, Viv creeps quietly past the bathroom before taking the narrow steps to the two bedrooms in the eaves. With each step the feeling of dread builds, every instinct telling her to turn around and leave, because this is almost every nightmare she’s had over the past thirty years made real. In her dreams she has seen herself so many times climb these same narrow steps, standing outside her sister’s bedroom door, pushing it open to find the faceless figure towering over her sister. It’s at that point that she always wakes, senseless with fear.

  Now, standing outside Ruby’s old room for the first time in over three decades, she closes her eyes, willing herself to focus as she casts her mind back to the day her sister died. She had been downstairs watching television when she heard Ruby and Jack arguing. After that she’d heard his footsteps descending the stairs before he ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him. Then, as she’d told the police at the time, she had gone up to Ruby’s room, opened the door and found her lying dead and alone on the floor.

  She raises her hand to the door handle, willing herself back to that moment when she’d stood in this exact spot as a child, and tells herself to push it open. But she can’t. As soon as her fingers touch the handle the panic becomes so unbearable that she can’t physically do it, and barely aware of her surroundings she begins to cry. ‘No,’ she moans. ‘No, no, no.’ She drops to her knees and she’s hardly aware of her distress, of the sound that she’s making, until she feels a hand on her arm and looks around in confusion to see the woman whose house she’s in gazing at her in horror.

  ‘I want you to go, now,’ she says, shielding her baby protectively as though Viv’s lunacy might harm him.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Viv stammers, and she doesn’t bother to explain, only stumbles to her feet and runs past the woman, back down the stairs and out of the house, not stopping until she reaches the end of the lane where she stands gasping for breath, waiting for the feeling of dread to subside. But even as her heart begins to calm, she’s increasingly certain of one thing: the account she’d given to the police when she was a child had been wrong. Someone else had been on the other side of that door when she’d pushed it open. Ruby hadn’t been alone.

  Dazed, she checks her watch and seeing that it’s almost eleven o’clock, she goes back to her car. She needs to return to London, to work out what to do next. But instead of taking the road to the motorway, she finds herself driving in the opposite direction until she reaches the village church. Her mother had never wanted to go back to see Ruby’s grave but now that she’s here, Viv feels its pull, the need to see her sister’s final resting place one more time.

  Like everything else in this village the churchyard is smaller and more dilapidated than she remembers, its crooked slopes more crowded, the graves squashed together with barely room to walk between them. Only the cherry tree in the corner is bigger, though its branches are empty of leaves. She walks to the far corner and it doesn’t take her long to find the headstone that replaced the temporary wooden cross she remembers from Ruby’s funeral. She recalls the small mound of earth covered in irises and feels the familiar onslaught of grief. Crouching down, she brushes away the dirt and weeds and reads: In loving memory of Ruby Swift, 1969–1984 and her unborn son Noah Swift. Two angels taken far too soon.

  She sits there looking at it for a long time until finally she pulls out her mobile and begins to type a message to Jack. I think Morris Dryden killed my sister, she types. He committed suicide out of guilt. I will tell the police that I was wrong and clear your name. Please let Cleo go now. Please.

  His message comes back almost instantly, Not Morris. Can’t have been. You have until tomorrow.

  16

  As she drives back to London, Viv scarcely notices the winding country roads, green fields and motorway that flash past her window. Instead, staring straight ahead, she thinks about when she and Stella had fled Essex for the capital all those years before, the train journey they’d taken, still senseless with grief and shock, towards a future they could scarcely imagine. She thinks about those first weeks and months of aimless drifting before they’d finally, miraculously, stumbled upon the sanctuary of Unity House. She thinks about the women living there; of Hayley, Soren, Jo, Kay, Christine and Sandra, their kindness and their love. And then she thinks of Margo.

  At first the commune’s founder had seemed to Vivienne like a sort of movie star, certainly like no one she’d ever met in their tiny corner of Essex, with her huge brown eyes and rich, melodious voice, her long dreadlocks and colourful, flowing clothes, her charisma and stately beauty. The fact that she singled Viv out and wanted to spend time with her had made her feel special in a way she never had before. For the first time since Ruby died, Vivienne had felt as though she wasn’t defined by the tragedy, but instead that she might one day become someone interesting and special in her own right in spite of it.

  It was only after her mother voiced her concerns about Margo that her own small doubts began to set in. It didn’t happen often, but occasionally Viv would see what Stella meant – the subtle putdowns, the chilly glances, the curt way in which Margo would sometimes address Stella – and Viv’s admiration had been tempered with confusion, that the person she so respected could be so cold to the person whom she loved best.

  She noticed too how Stella would become quiet and withdrawn in Margo’s presence, almost as though she were frightened of her. When Vivienne asked her mother about this Stella had brushed it off. ‘Not frightened, darling, no. Of course not.’ And then she’d sighed and said, ‘But you must admit, she can be a bit intimidating.’

  And yet, whenever her mum was at work, or at a Women’s Lib meeting, or doing her life-coach training, Viv would find herself seeking Margo out, drawn to her attention, to the way Margo made her feel, even though she knew that her mother was right: Margo did indeed seem to prefer it when the two of them were alone together, often inviting her to her room or some other secluded spot in the house or garden where they could talk in private.

  One of the things she liked to do best was to try on Margo’s charm bracelet. It was a beautiful, heavy piece of silver jewellery, which Margo said she’d had all her life, adding to it throughout the years. Some of the charms were animals, others denoted good luck, and some were tiny discs with Aztec symbols engraved on them. Vivienne would sit on Margo’s bed, feeling the weight of it in her hands, admiring each tiny charm as Margo told her what each one meant: Love, Hope, Courage, Friendship and so on. Afterwards she would describe it to her mother and tell her how much she would love to have a charm bracelet of her own one day.

  Vivienne had been fourteen when the awful truth had been revealed. It had started with a disagreement between Stella and Margo about the meal Stella was cooking for dinner. Vivienne hadn’t been in the room when it had begun, had only walked in, accompanied by Jo and Hayley, once the argument was in full swing, but they were in time to hear Margo hiss, ‘If it wasn’t for your daughter you’d be out of here. It’s only for that child’s sake that I let you stay.’

  ‘Margo!’ Jo had said, and Margo had turned to face them, her face puce.

  ‘What is it with you and my daughter?’ Stella had exploded then
. ‘Your strange obsession with her? It’s creepy, the way you behave!’

  At this, Margo had recoiled. ‘What the hell are you suggesting?’ Her eyes bright with anger, she’d spat, ‘My God, you’re a disgusting human being!’

  Hayley had intervened, trying her best to calm the situation, but Margo had stalked out, leaving the four of them staring after her in shocked silence.

  For the rest of the afternoon Margo had stayed in her room, not showing her face when they congregated for dinner in the evening. She had gone out early the following morning and remained alone in her room when she returned. Vivienne had stayed close to her mother, feeling obscurely responsible for the bad atmosphere that hung in the air. And then things had taken an even worse turn.

  Stella had been helping Viv with her homework when Margo had come storming into the kitchen. ‘Where is it?’ she asked them, her face tight with anger. ‘My bracelet. Where is it?’

  Stella and Viv had glanced at each other in confusion, until Viv had asked, ‘What do you mean? Has it gone missing?’

  But Margo was staring at Stella. ‘You took it. I know you did. I’d like to have it back.’

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’ Stella had asked in amazement.

  ‘As some sort of petty revenge for our argument yesterday, I expect,’ Margo had replied.

  By this time Sandra and Rafferty Wolf had walked in. ‘Sisters, please,’ Sandra remonstrated, ‘this has gone on long enough.’

  It was then that Stella lost her temper, slamming the cup she was holding onto the table. ‘How would I know where it is?’ she’d shouted. ‘Why do you persist in persecuting me like this? I won’t stand for it.’ And then something had altered in her eyes. ‘I bet it’s in your room!’ she said. ‘I bet you’re making this up!’ And with that she’d stormed from the kitchen, the rest of them following.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Margo had called, running after her. ‘You have no right to go in there!’

  ‘Mum …’ Viv had pleaded when she’d caught up with Stella. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t—’

  Ignoring her pleas, Stella had run to Margo’s room and begun to go through her things, rooting through drawers and shelves while the others crowded in the doorway looking on, Stella’s anger making her reckless as she tossed things here and there. At last she opened a drawer and gasped in surprise. In the shocked silence that followed, one by one she had pulled out a succession of items belonging to each of the other women in the house. Soren’s silver hair comb. Christine’s wallet containing three ten-pound notes. A small gold picture frame passed on to Kay by her mother. Stella’s bank card, and worst of all, a necklace that had once belonged to Ruby and had been Vivienne’s most treasured possession since she was eight. She had lost it months ago, had been inconsolable when she realized, had even cried in Margo’s arms about it. All of the possessions were things that the women had lost in the past year or two. Money had also gone missing, in small enough amounts for the women to reluctantly shrug off, but when Stella pulled out a tin of notes and coins, it was easy to guess where it had come from.

  Each of the women standing in that room had been struck dumb with shock, but Viv would never forget the raw, visceral horror she’d felt. Margo knew how much the necklace meant to her. She’d seen her devastation when it went missing, and yet she’d said nothing. And it seemed that Margo had nothing to say now, for she just stared back at each of them, her own face ashen. And when Vivienne whispered, ‘You took it? You had it all along?’ Margo had held her gaze but not replied.

  Vivienne ran from the room, but not before she’d spotted by Margo’s bed, half-hidden by a sock, the lost charm bracelet lying on the floor.

  Margo had moved out soon after, signing all responsibility for the commune over to Sandra and Christine. Vivienne had hidden upstairs with Hayley while she packed up, and when Margo had gone she wandered down to her empty room to find lying on her chest of drawers a small package addressed to her. Inside had been a silver chain attached to one of the Aztec symbol pendants from Margo’s bracelet. She’d looked at it, resting in her palm, unable to remember what that specific symbol meant, before dropping it in the bin and leaving the room with a shudder of disgust. And in that instant all of Margo’s warmth and friendship, her belief in Vivienne, was lost, mingling with her disappointment to create a sense of betrayal so deep that it never really left her.

  It’s midday when Viv draws up outside her house in Peckham. The rain has stopped, but the colourless sky remains heavy with moisture. The cluster of reporters at her gate has grown larger and when she gets out of her car they surge forward, pushing microphones in her face, shouting questions, a new excitement in their voices.

  ‘Would you like to answer any of the stories in the papers today, Vivienne?’ one asks. ‘Is it true you’d passed out drunk when your daughter went missing?’ ‘Did you have any idea Cleo was being groomed online?’ ‘Can you tell us where your boyfriend Aleksander Petri is?’

  She looks at them in dismay until a policeman who’d been standing nearby waves them back. Keeping her head bowed, she dashes into her house, slamming the door behind her. What had they been talking about? With shaking hands, she pulls out her phone and googles her daughter’s name. Sure enough, a bunch of tabloid headlines leap out at her. ‘Schoolgirl snatched while mum partied’ reads one; ‘Kidnapper groomed missing teen for weeks’ says another.

  The first article she clicks on is from the Mail Online:

  Neighbour Neil Francis, 49, says, ‘She was very drunk that night. She had her new boyfriend over. I don’t like to judge but I’m not surprised that she passed out. Just so sad that she didn’t wake to save her daughter.’ Mr Francis goes on to say, ‘Cleo’s a lovely girl, much more gentle than her mother, who can be a bit abrasive. I tried to tell her to sober up the night Cleo went missing and got sworn at for my trouble.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Viv mutters. ‘You bloody bastard.’ She picks up a mug from the coffee table and throws it at their adjoining wall. It bounces off with a thud, falling to the floor. Next she picks up her phone and, ignoring the missed calls from Cleo’s father, Stella and DS Marshall, she tries Alek’s number again, only to be met with the same deathly silence.

  In despair she scrolls through more articles about Cleo. ‘Police are increasingly worried …’ she reads. ‘No new leads in missing teen case …’ She opens Facebook and searches for her daughter’s name and sees that an appeal for information about her has been shared and liked hundreds of thousands of times already. ‘Where are you?’ she whispers, staring at the accompanying picture of her daughter’s face. ‘Where are you, my love?’

  Her phone drops to her lap, nausea rising inside her as she remembers Jack’s threat to cut off Cleo’s finger. Time is running out. She puts her head in her hands and wants to scream with desperation. Her mobile bleeps, the noise making her jump violently and she snatches it up to find a message from Carl. Accompanying his message is a picture.

  Hi Viv, not got hold of my auntie yet, soz, she reads. Remembered we had this picture on the pub wall from years ago. My Dad must have taken it. That’s Declan Fairbanks in the centre, isn’t it? Dimly Viv remembers the pinboard of photos she’d seen on the Bird’s Nest wall by the bar, similar to one she’d seen in many other pubs, displaying a selection of their customers over the years. Hurriedly she clicks on the image and stares down at it. Carl had obviously taken a photo of the picture with his phone, and it showed what must have been some sort of party at the Bird’s Nest, Carl’s lens focusing on a few drinkers apparently part of a larger crowd.

  The photo is in colour but faded and slightly yellowed with age. In the centre is a man in his early fifties who Viv instantly recognizes as their former neighbour. He is a slim man who obviously kept himself in shape, his shirt showing arms taut with muscles. He has salt-and-pepper hair and a haughty expression as he stares almost angrily at the camera. She’s about to click back to Carl’s message when she notices something else about the picture. There, st
anding slightly apart from Declan is her sister, staring away from the camera, to someone or something out of shot. It’s not as though she’s standing with him, but she’s definitely part of the same crowd of people. What is most arresting is the misery in her eyes. Viv gazes more closely at her sister’s face. She looks slightly younger than the age she was when she died. Maybe only fourteen. But why does she look so desperately sad?

  The message Carl has sent with the picture goes on, I asked the Cockles but they had no forwarding address for him. I’m seeing my auntie later so will let you know if she’s got any info. Cxx

  Her mobile rings, the word ‘Mum’ flashing on the screen, and she’s about to pick up when there’s a loud knock on her door.

  Cleo sits motionless, her eyes fixed on the caravan’s door. She’s breathing through her mouth to avoid the stench of stale cigarette smoke and petrol and the scratchy orange fabric of her seat is damp and cold. The only light comes from a small and dusty anglepoise lamp and her shadow is thrown huge against the wall. From somewhere outside she hears a radio’s steady burble of pop songs and beyond that the low, distant noise of traffic.

  Hunger gnaws at her and she eyes the greasy paper bag he left behind but though her mouth waters at the thought of food she will not eat it. What if he tried to drug her again? She wants her mum so badly that she can hardly breathe. She has to get out of here, away from him; she has to warn her mother about this man. And it is this thought, of the danger that Viv is in, that propels Cleo to her feet.

  She looks around her. There’s a small kitchen area with a sink, a stove and a cupboard with drawers. On the other side of the room is the seating area with a bolted-down table. Orange-and-brown stripy curtains hang at the windows and she goes to the largest window first, pressing against the Perspex, looking for any sign of weakness, but finds none. She tries the second, then the third, but they won’t budge. She is completely trapped.