The Charmer

by Mandasue Heller

  Giving a questioning jerk of her chin, Tanith’s heart sank when the policewoman raised her eyebrows grimly in reply, telling her exactly what she hadn’t wanted to hear.

  ‘Come on, lovey,’ she said, opening the door and ushering Maria through the small hallway. ‘Let’s go and make ourselves comfortable while we’re waiting, eh?’

  Sitting beside Maria on the settee, Tanith was surprised by how clean and cosy everything looked. She’d expected dirt and mess, but this was a real home, with all the loving touches that showed somebody really cared about the place; little things like cushions, plants and ornaments, which most civilised people took for granted, but which were almost unheard of in some of the disgusting hovels she’d had the misfortune to visit on this estate.

  Numerous photographs of Maria at various ages graced the walls, and there was a portrait of both her and her mother on a shelf above the fire; heads touching, faces wreathed in happy smiles. Saddened by the obvious affection in their eyes, Tanith folded her hands tightly in her lap. This was never easy, but it was so much harder where love existed. She wished the officers would hurry up so they could get things moving. The sooner this was dealt with, the better for all concerned.

  Watching Tanith out of the corner of her eye, Maria chewed on her lip and fiddled with her fingers as she waited for the axe to fall. She’d been racking her brain but, apart from wagging it, she couldn’t think of anything she might have done that was bad enough to get arrested for.

  Apart from throwing that brick through Mrs Felix’s window the other week.

  Shit!

  That had been an accident, though, and Mrs Felix had promised not to grass on her. She could have changed her mind, but Maria doubted it. Not after she’d apologised and taken Mrs Felix’s piss-stinking clothes to the wash-house to make up for it.

  Other than that, she genuinely didn’t think she’d done anything wrong lately. But she’d find out soon enough. And whatever it was, it had to be pretty bad, because this felt way heavier than the time when she’d been nabbed for shoplifting. She’d only got a warning from the coppers who brought her home that time, but this felt a thousand times worse. Her mum was going to kill her.

  After a while, Aiken came in and sat awkwardly down on a chair across from the couch. Resting his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands together and stared down at the recently vacuumed carpet. He hated shouts like this involving kids. They always cried and expected someone to hug them, but sympathy didn’t come naturally to him. Sure, he felt for them, but it didn’t show on his face, and the comforting words sounded false on his lips. No, he was quite happy to let his partner and the social worker deal with it – as long as they didn’t drag it out. He had a darts match at The George tonight, and he didn’t want to miss it.

  Lennox came in then and exchanged a hooded glance with Tanith before sitting down on the other side of Maria.

  ‘Maria,’ she said, her voice soft and low. ‘We need to talk to you about something really important. But before I start, I want you to know that you needn’t be scared, because you’re not in any trouble . . . Okay?’

  Scared more by the insistence that she shouldn’t be, Maria felt the room closing in on her. They were being too nice, and it just didn’t feel right.

  ‘I want my mum,’ she croaked, her voice just a whisper as her throat constricted with dread. ‘Can you get my mum, please? She’ll be scared if you take me away while she’s out. I don’t even know what I’ve done.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything,’ Lennox assured her quietly. ‘That’s not why we’re here, sweetheart.’ Sitting forward, she reached for one of Maria’s hands and patted it reassuringly. Like Rob Aiken, she, too, hated these shouts. It was absolutely the worst part of the job that she otherwise loved. At times like this, she wished she were a waitress or a meter-maid – anything but the person about to destroy a child’s life. ‘There’s been an accident,’ she said at last. ‘Your mum—’

  ‘What about her?’ Maria’s head jerked back, her eyes wide with fear. ‘What kind of accident? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Lennox went on gently, ‘but she was hit by a car when she left work today. She was taken to the infirmary, but I’m afraid she didn’t make it.’

  ‘No!’ Maria gasped, wrenching her hands free as if they’d been burned. ‘No, you’re wrong!’

  ‘I wish I was,’ Lennox sighed. ‘But that call I got just now, that was the station, confirming that she’s been positively identified by two of her workmates.’

  ‘They’re lying,’ Maria spluttered, refusing to believe it. ‘It wasn’t her – I know it wasn’t.’

  ‘It was, my love.’ Lennox’s brow was deeply furrowed with pity. ‘She had benefit books in her bag, with her name and national insurance number on them. She also had her works’ photo-security card pinned to her jacket. And, apart from the two who did it officially, all of her workmates who were coming out at the same time said it was her. There’s absolutely no doubt.’

  ‘This is where I come in,’ Tanith interjected softly. ‘It’s my job to find a place for you to stay – preferably with family.’ Taking a notepad from her briefcase, she flipped it open and took a pen out of her pocket. ‘Now, we’ve been told that Dad doesn’t live with you, but I need to know if you have a contact number for him?’ She looked at Maria expectantly. ‘His work number will do, but a mobile would be better.’

  ‘I haven’t got a dad.’ Maria heard the voice, but it didn’t sound like her own. It sounded alien, disembodied, as if it was coming from the corner of the ceiling, drifting further and further away. ‘Never had one. He’s dead.’

  ‘Grandparents, then?’ Tanith probed gently. The last thing this child needed was to be placed with strangers. At a time like this, she needed the love and comfort of people who had rejoiced at her birth. ‘Aunts or uncles?’

  ‘No.’ Maria shook her head as the tears fell over her lower lashes like bright diamond chips and tumbled down her cheeks. ‘There’s only me and Mum. I want my muuum . . .’

  ‘There must be somebody?’ Tanith persisted. ‘Come on, Maria, think . . . I know it’s hard, but this is really important.’

  When Maria shook her head again, Tanith gave a small helpless shrug. This was the last thing she wanted to do, but she had no choice. Getting up she walked to the door and, taking a mobile phone from her pocket, tapped in a number.

  Motioning to Lennox while she waited for an answer, she said, ‘Could you help her get some things together, please?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Lennox agreed, getting up and joining her at the door. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m arranging an emergency placement at one of the units for tonight,’ Tanith told her quietly. ‘I’ll see if I can locate any family when she’s settled, but we need to get her out of here before it hits home. I’ve got a feeling she’s going to take it very badly.’

  Maria didn’t hear any of this. Nor did she hear a word Lennox said as she allowed the kindly policewoman to lead her to her bedroom to pack a small bag. Numbed by grief and shock, she retreated into a cocoon of silence – and stayed there long after they had bundled her into the back of the police car and driven her far away from the only home she had ever known.

  PART TWO

  2

  It was freezing in the flat. Huddled beneath the quilt, Maria watched as the weak morning sunrays danced off the spirals and iridescent baubles of the sea-horse mobile dangling down from the curtain rail. It was a birthday present from Beth. She’d brought it round last night and forced Maria to open it there and then – too impatient to wait until it was official.

  Leanne and Sharon’s presents were still sitting wrapped on the table. They had insisted that she did wait, even though she already knew what they had bought her: Louvre Letters, from Leanne – a book of prints from the gallery; and the D & G scarf they had found in the pocket of a jacket at the local Oxfam shop from Sharon. Not much to mark the passage into true adulthood, but it was more th
an enough for Maria.

  Hearing the morning post dropping onto the lino in the hall below, she reached for her dressing gown and shivered her way down the stairs. It was supposed to be an Indian summer, but this was definitely early winter. The thin sheen of ice that coated the inside of the windows for half the year was already evident. But there was no point moaning; the landlord refused to replace the windows or update the heating.

  ‘It’s a listed building,’ he chanted whenever anyone complained about the lack of central heating or double glazing. ‘I’m not allowed to modernise.’

  That was bollocks, because Maria had gone to the town hall and checked the records, and it wasn’t listed at all. But there was no reasoning with a dickhead like Ken Greenbridge. If you argued, he told you to put up and shut up – or pack up and piss off. And, bad as it was, the place was still the cheapest and best of the slums-by-the-sea. So she stayed put, using the extra money she’d have to pay to live somewhere nicer to save for the trip to Australia that she and the girls had been planning since leaving uni. Their last girly holiday before they settled into their proper lives: full-time jobs; marriage; mortgages; babies.

  That was what the girls were aspiring towards, anyway. Maria would be happy just to have a full-time job, but they were few and far between in this dead little backwater. She was job-sharing with Beth, teaching art at the local primary school at the moment, but half a job meant half the pay, and while that was fine for Beth who was still living at home, Maria was having a harder time of it. But there weren’t too many opportunities for art graduates here, so, unless she fancied trying her hand at one of the new lap-dancing clubs in one of the tourist Bays, she was stuck on the work-to-survive hamster wheel – living in squalor and saving her butt off.

  Tiptoeing across the freezing lino, Maria scooped up the mail. Flipping through it, she took her own and dumped the rest on the ledge. She had three cards, and two letters.

  Back in her room, she opened the first card. It was from Ian, a lad she’d dated briefly in her first year at uni. They’d split when he moved to Wales, but he never forgot to send birthday or Christmas cards. Which was kind of sweet, considering she’d been pretty cold about the break-up.

  The second was a hand-painted fairy from a girl called Sam who had stayed on to specialise in fine art after the rest of them graduated. The card was so gorgeous that Maria thought she would frame it and keep it, on the off chance that it might be worth something one day.

  The last card was a jokey one from Beth, with a lovely silver wrist chain sellotaped to the inside, alongside the words: ‘Thought you said I couldn’t surprise you?’

  Peeling the chain off, Maria looped it around her wrist and held it up at the window to admire it. It was so delicate – and so typical of Beth: always making that extra bit of effort, because she knew that no one else would.

  Standing the cards alongside the others on the mantelpiece, she smiled. Seven – her lucky number.

  Washed and dressed, she opened the letters, groaning when she saw that the first was an electricity bill. Bang went the lucky theory. Apart from the holiday money, which she had vowed not to touch, she had just about enough in the bank for this month’s rent and the minimum payment on her credit-card bill, and her wages weren’t due for another two weeks. Great!

  She almost binned the second letter, sure that it would be another bill. But then she figured that she’d rather know if the bailiffs were planning on booting the door in. Not that they’d get much. She doubted whether even the tramp who lived in the arcade doorway near the Den would want her ancient Sanyo portable, and the kettle was a death trap in training. The furniture was the landlord’s, so they were welcome to that. But, apart from her clothes, she didn’t actually own much else.

  That was the legacy of growing up in the so-called care system. Someone invariably stole whatever you had, so you learned not to get too attached to anything. And you kept everything to a minimum so it was easy to pack when you were being shunted from home to home, and easy to replace if – when – it went walkabout.

  Opening the second envelope with a resigned sigh, she frowned when she saw the letterhead: Wilkins, Grayson & Cobb Solicitors. 326 Market Street. Manchester. Why on Earth would a solicitor be contacting her?

  Oh, God, she hoped it wasn’t the catalogue!

  She hadn’t meant to stop paying for those boots, but they’d been so unreasonable when she missed a couple of instalments, demanding the whole lot in one go even though she told them she didn’t have it, that she’d stopped opening their letters. And then she’d forgotten all about it.

  There was a tap on the door, then Beth’s grinning face appeared around it, singing, ‘Happy birthday to you! Did you get it?’ she asked then.

  ‘Er, yeah . . . thanks.’ Still frowning, Maria waved her to come in.

  ‘What’s up with your miserable face?’ Beth asked, unwrapping the scarf from around her neck and draping it over the back of the couch. ‘Oh, you didn’t snap the chain, did you?’

  ‘Course not,’ Maria said, holding her arm up so that Beth could see that it was fine. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Knew you would.’ Leaning over the back of the couch, Beth kissed her on the cheek. ‘So, what is up?’ she asked, dumping her coat on top of the scarf and taking three steps back into the square-foot space that the landlord laughingly called a kitchen.

  ‘This.’ Maria flapped the letter. ‘It’s from a solicitor.’

  ‘Saying?’ Beth switched the kettle on and swilled two cups out under the tap.

  ‘Don’t know, I haven’t read it yet. I was just about to when you came.’

  Snorting softly, Beth shook her head as she spooned coffee into the cups. ‘You haven’t even read it, but you’ve already convinced yourself it’s bad news, haven’t you? You need to sort that pessimistic streak of yours out before it eats you alive, girl. You could have won some big competition, for all you know.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Like I can afford to enter competitions.’

  ‘Give it here – and get that look off your face before I slap you,’ Beth said bossily. Striding across, she snatched the letter and pulled Maria to her feet. ‘You finish the brews, and I’ll read this. No sugar for me, though – I’m on a diet. Right, let’s see what’s going on . . .

  ‘“Dear Miss Price,”’ she read aloud, ‘“I am contacting you on the occasion of your 21st birthday as per the instructions of our client, Miss Elsie Leonora Davidson. As the only surviving relative of said client – now deceased – it is my pleasure to inform you that you are the sole beneficiary of the estate as detailed in the . . .”’ Reading the rest to herself, she glanced up excitedly. ‘God, Maria! You’ve inherited a house!’

  Maria had a confused frown on her brow. ‘What do they mean – only surviving relative? I’ve never even heard of her.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Beth grinned. ‘She’s left you a house, and some money. You might be rich.’

  Maria thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. ‘They must have got the wrong person. I haven’t got any relatives. It was only ever me and my mum.’

  ‘Well, apparently, there was someone else,’ Beth said, rereading the letter. ‘It’s definitely your name and address, and it is your birthday. How would they have known that if it wasn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Maria shrugged. ‘From the electoral register, or something. It’s too easy to get people’s personal details these days.’

  ‘Well, they want you to get in touch to set up an appointment,’ Beth said, handing the letter back to her when she brought the coffees over. ‘Ring them and find out what’s going on.’

  ‘No way.’ Maria dropped the letter on the couch between them as if it was on fire. ‘I think it’s the catalogue after me over those boots. They’re just trying to lure me into a false sense of security by making me think I’m coming into money. But they’re blagging the wrong person, because I haven’t got any relatives.’

  ‘Don’t talk such utter rub
bish,’ Beth scoffed. ‘They’ll have given up on them ages ago.’ Sipping her coffee, she grimaced. ‘God, that’s horrible without sugar. How long is it since you last heard from them?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Yeah, but they won’t just let it go, will they?’ Maria reached for her cigarettes.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Beth conceded. ‘But they wouldn’t go to these lengths for – what? Thirty quid? Getting a solicitor to write a letter would cost them more than that. Nah. This is nothing to do with them, I guarantee it. Just give them a ring. What have you got to lose?’

  ‘You do it if you’re so sure,’ Maria said, almost convinced but still wary.

  ‘Take your cig over there and I’ll think about it,’ Beth said, wafting the smoke away with her hand. ‘You know I’m trying to give up.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Getting up, Maria went to sit by the window. ‘It’s hard to remember what you’re giving up. If it’s not cigs, it’s chocolate. Or you’re going veggie, or something.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m back on meat at the moment,’ Beth said, reaching for Maria’s phone and tapping in the solicitor’s number. ‘And if that coffee’s anything to go by, I’ll be back on sugar before the day’s out, too. Shush now . . . it’s ringing.’

  ‘Don’t stay on too long,’ Maria whispered hurriedly, conscious of not running up yet more bills. ‘And don’t forget to say you’re me or they might not tell you anything.’

  ‘Oh, hello, yes . . .’ Beth said, waving her to be quiet. ‘My name’s Maria Price. I got a letter from you this morning asking me to ring a –’ she ran a finger down the letter, ‘– Nigel Grayson. Yes, I’ll hold.’

  ‘You should have told them to ring back,’ Maria hissed.

  ‘Oh, so you want me to give them your number, do you?’ Beth asked, covering the mouthpiece. ‘What if it is the catalogue?’ Flapping her hand just as Maria was about to reply, she said, ‘Mr Grayson? Hi, yes, my name’s Maria Price. I got your letter this morning. Something about an inheritance . . . ?’