by Daisy White
Add that to a killer with a penchant for party girls, and the city by the sea becomes a dangerous place to live.
Chapter Fifteen
BRIGHTON KILLER STRIKES AGAIN
Carla Wilkinson, aged 19, from Hillsdown Road in Hastings, may have become the third victim of the man police are terming ‘a possible serial killer.’ Miss Wilkinson’s body was found at Glebe House yesterday morning by local dog walker Andrew Jackson.
Mr Jackson told our reporter that he found Miss Wilkinson tied to the infamous Witch Stone, which locals are now dubbing, ‘The Killing Stone,’ at around 5am. “At first I thought she was still alive, but then I realised she was tied to the stone, and it looked like she was sitting upright. I did see a couple of other men out walking, but nobody near the body. It was shocking, and my heart goes out to her family.”
A source tells us that police are investigating several leads, including the possibility that both victims were members of a local group of girls with an interest in witchcraft, in particular the life and death of Lady Isabella Gordon. The case of Katie Simmons, whose battered body was discovered in the same location last year, has been reopened after new evidence suggests that suicide victim Terence Jacks was not the perpetrator of the crime. Local girl Linda Beeston was also found murdered last week in exactly the same spot.
Green Ridges resident Sarah Tomes told us she had recently moved to the area, but is now, “living in fear” after the recent spate of murders. Her neighbours, who prefer not to be named, added, “We don’t let our girls go out at night now. It must be obvious to the police that there is a serial killer on the loose, but we haven’t seen any more of them around town. Everyone is scared.”
While the council is likely to make a final decision on the redevelopment of the remaining land at Glebe House next week, developers Ridgeway’s declined to comment on reports that buyers are staying away from the area.
Detectives have been drafted in from neighbouring counties to form a larger investigation team.
“Grim,” Johnnie says, studying the front page of the Brighton Herald. “I assume Kenny and James had a hand in this, so where’s the mention of Linda’s secret assignation, or the fact that Carla’s father was arrested last night?”
Mary and I look up from the newspaper, and Eve abandons her sweeping.
“How do you know that?” Catherine calls from the far corner, where she has just finished shampooing Mrs Green.
“I have my sources.”
Mrs Green wipes her face with a towel and joins the conversation, her little pointed face alight with curiosity, “My husband works in the butcher’s down Main Street, and Carla’s dad is in the meat business, so we knew, of course.”
I’m about to take an instant dislike to this woman — I know everyone loves to gossip but this is taking it a bit far — when she adds firmly, “But he didn’t do it! Carla’s dad loves his girls, and I won’t hear a word said against that family. I know what people are saying, that young girls out at parties, taking drugs and drinking, deserve everything they get. Well, I say why shouldn’t they all have a bit of fun? Life’s short enough, without some killer stalking the streets.”
“I agree with you there, Iris. Even though my older lot are all married, I still worry about any of them out after dark now.” Catherine begins to tease out Mrs Green’s tangles with a wide-toothed comb.
Mrs Green twists round to face Johnnie for a moment. “You said there was some sort of love affair going on with the first girl, though?”
I interrupt quickly. “I asked the police yesterday if they thought the deaths were connected, and they more or less said they weren’t.”
The client nods, as if I have confirmed her suspicions, “What do they know anyway? Looks like the police blamed Terence Jacks for Katie’s murder and the poor man was innocent. Think of his family too!”
Johnnie frowns at her. His blue eyes look tired and slightly bloodshot, “I personally think that the more people who work on this, the better chance we have of catching the killer. We all need to be part of the investigation. Someone may well have a vital piece of information, but they don’t know it.”
Mrs Green nods so frantically that Catherine sighs, and puts the comb down. Mary opens the door to another client, and Johnnie brings her into the conversation too. And so it continues all day, until a dozen theories are flying around, and every one of our tables outside is full of gossiping clients. Some have a full head of rollers, others are set up with a towel around wet hair waiting for a cut, and even the ones under the three shiny dryers are exchanging ideas and putting forward possible suspects. Nobody looks at the magazines, but everyone paws over today’s newspaper and the mountain of dirty teacups grows.
At lunchtime, Mary tidies her work area and pops upstairs for her afternoon rest. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I feel fine today, and we’re so busy,” she says, surveying the chaos.
“You need to rest now, because we’re going shopping for baby stuff later. It’s the evening market in The Laines. I bet we can pick up everything for a few pence — well, maybe a few shillings!” I grin at her, and then glance down again quickly. I’m carefully painting a client’s nails in shocking scarlet, and it will look pretty unprofessional if I get the nail polish on her skin.
“Go!” Johnnie shoos Mary out, before starting to pin rollers into another client’s hair. “So, Annabel, did you know Linda?”
“You did that on purpose,” I tell Johnnie, as I make a dash to the back for more towels an hour later, and find him calmly smoking on the stairs, a little notebook and pencil balanced on his knee. “You’ve turned the salon into — into an investigation bureau!”
“Well, not quite, angel, but I like the name. We are a gossip station for locals anyway, despite my efforts to bring in a few more high-enders. And we need them. The police are pursuing two pointless leads if you include that ridiculous witchcraft theory. God knows where they got it, but apparently it comes from a reliable source.”
I can hear Eve calling me from out the front, but before I go I ask, “And the other lead?”
He shrugs. “Carla’s dad was indeed a family man, who loved his kids, but he was also prone to starting affairs with girls half his age. Inspector Hammond is looking at the possibility he was seeing Linda, and Carla found out.”
“No way! Linda wouldn’t — not with a married man! Would she?” I think about how little I actually knew about the freckled-faced girl with the wild brown hair, “Besides Victoria is sure she was starting to think seriously about Ted. Wait, how do you know all this stuff anyway? Have you seen Inspector Hammond again?”
Johnnie flicks me a bland blue stare. “Get those towels, Miss Pop-Lips. I can hear poor Eve calling again.” He goes back to his cigarette and notebook.
The last client finally leaves at six thirty, and I make the usual tray of tea. My feet are hurting, my legs and back aching, and my throat’s sore from so much chat, but I’m still not in a hurry to finish up. In fact, I’ve been so focused on the ‘investigation bureau’ that the watcher has barely crossed my mind. Just, you know every hour or so, which is an improvement.
Does it help knowing who he is? Not really, because he has such a massive motive for revenge, and I can’t do a thing about it. If he wanted to go to the police he could. Or if he wanted a confrontation he could follow me one night to a coffee bar, a party, or even the beach.
Johnnie sits on a client chair and flicks open the notebook.
“Wait!” I tell him. “We need to get Mary, and then have a proper meeting at the end of each day until the case is solved.”
Catherine smiles. “I always thought I’d make a great detective. Missed my calling, but it’s never too late! Go on then, Ruby, but make it quick, I’ve got to pick up Laura and Tom.” She and Eve pull out chairs and stretch their legs out, with only a quick glance at their watches. Johnnie’s like Pearl, carrying a whole raft of people with him on a tidal wave of enthusiasm for whatever project takes his fancy.
I pop outside, take a couple of deep breaths of blue sky and golden sun, and swing round past the dustbins to our little front door. The door is open. Not fully, just ajar. Just enough to let a slash of light stripe the floorboards inside.
“Mary!”
I stop for one frozen second. Then I run through the hallway calling her name. My feet slip and my fingers scrabble at the rough-painted walls. The noise echoes through the silence. My breath comes in painful gasps, and everything seems to blur into a kaleidoscope of shaken colour.
The second door is ajar too, and inside the room is painfully empty. The motionless baby crib in the corner seems to mock me, and my throat constricts with tears. Mary would never go out and leave both doors open. She would have stuck her head in and told us if she needed to get some more milk for her tea, or she wasn’t feeling well.
I take a quick look around. We’re more organised now, after a lunchtime shopping spree last week, and a generous loan from Johnnie. We have acquired a couple of old rails for our clothes, some wooden boxes for knickknacks, and a long skinny table for the neat rows of makeup and toiletries. The old make-do pieces are dressed with colourful scarves, and a string of fake pearls hangs over the battered mirror. Even the kitchen area is clean and neat, with a cluster of white mugs, plates, and bowls stacked in the corner.
All except for one mug, which lies smashed on the floorboards. Shards of white litter the scrubbed wood, and an ugly brown stain spreads towards Mary’s bed. Her sheet and pillows are ruffled, but no more than I would expect if she’d had a lie-down. The mug of tea would have been on the box next to her bedside. A magazine lies face-down, pages bent, in the space between our beds.
No note, no other disturbance. Her blue purse and new fake leather shoulder bag from the market are still on one of the mismatched chairs. I force myself to check the contents. Money, makeup, a hairbrush, house keys and her little phonebook are all still intact.
I stand for perhaps half a minute, gathering my thoughts. No other signs of a struggle, and no blood. She would have screamed, surely, if someone tried to take her by force. She’d have been shocked to see the door opening.
The door.
As I run back down I quickly check both doors, running shaky fingers over the wood to check for splinters. I have a vivid memory of Pearl’s broken lock. Nothing, which means either Mary opened the door and let someone in, or they have their own key. I start running again, pelting past the bins, dodging people on the pavement.
“Slow down! Where’s Mary?” Johnnie says sharply, as I hurtle in at the salon door.
I almost can’t bring myself to speak, but manage to tell them, in a high, shaky little voice, what I think has happened, before a few tears leak down my cheeks. I brush them away angrily and I force myself to focus.
“No! Are you sure she hasn’t just popped out for some fresh air or something?” Catherine asks.
I’m already dialling the number for Brighton Police Station. I bite my lip as the phone rings for ages. If I dial 999 I’ll have to navigate my way through to Inspector Hammond, and it seems more sensible to go straight through to the man in charge. I drum my fingers on the desk.
Johnnie flicks quickly through his notebook, muttering to the other two. I half listen, trying not to scream with frustration, waiting for someone to answer the bloody phone.
Finally a desk sergeant picks up the phone, and I don’t waste any time. “I need to speak to Inspector Hammond. It’s Ruby Baker, and my friend Mary Evans has been abducted.”
* * *
By the time the sun sinks to a red gold ball flaming over the sea, Johnnie’s has become headquarters for our search, and is buzzing with people. I used the call box down the road, Johnnie the telephone in the salon, and Catherine set off with Eve to alert the neighbours, with strict instructions from our employer.
“Knock on every bloody door in your road, and tell all the people you know. We need everyone out searching for Mary. With luck, the interest on the streets will put this bastard off doing anything until we find out where he’s keeping her,” Johnnie told them.
I called the Brighton Herald and said I had the story on a local abduction but would only speak to Kenny or James. They were both out, but the girl on the news desk promised to let them know. Now I’m ringing around my half of the list of those friends who have phones, repeating my questions again and again.
Inspector Hammond appears briefly to get the details, minus Eileen, but with the interchangeable Bill and Ben constables that I remember from a couple of days ago. They scribble notes as we talk.
“Can you describe the day? Tell me exactly what happened.” Inspector Hammond is clearly feeling the pressure now. His shirt shows sweat patches spreading under his arms and across his chest. The damp material clings to his large body. He rubs his stubble with a rough hand, grey eyes flicking slowly around the room as I talk.
I tell him how Mary went upstairs for a rest, and four hours later I found she’d disappeared.
“The doors were both open?”
“Yes. Just ajar, you know, not pushed right open.” I know what he’s going to ask next — the question I have been dreading.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Miss Evans?”
“She has a husband, Derek Brooks. That’s why we came to Brighton, to get her away from him. He used to hit her, and she was worried he would harm the baby, so I suggested we came down and stayed with my cousin, Pearl.”
“I see. It does rather sound like this is more like a misunderstanding than anything linked to the recent murders, so try not to worry,” he smiles reassuringly, in a ‘kind uncle’ way that makes me want to scream. “Is it possible that her husband could have discovered the whereabouts of his estranged wife? Could he have maybe made contact with your cousin?”
“No. She would have told us,” I say firmly, “There have been a couple of weird phone calls, though, and we thought maybe someone was watching us on the beach.” I give them an edited version of events, making it seem more like we thought the watcher could be a friend of Derek’s or even a private detective. “Derek is just too lazy, and he’s not a very intelligent man. Mary and I talked about it. He had convinced himself the baby wasn’t even his.”
“Right. Well, you’ve been very helpful. As I say, try not to worry too much. If you could just leave addresses and names with Constable Billington here—”
The salon door bangs open. A bald man with a thin mouth and sparse grey eyebrows introduces himself brusquely as Detective Inspector Cobbler. The atmosphere between him and Hammond is clearly strained — as the newcomer fires more questions, the inspector assures me we are finished for now. They both jump on my answers, making me jittery so that I’m stammering like the prime suspect. After ten minutes, they finally stand, making a big deal out of telling Bill and Ben to make sure the notes are on their respective desks in an hour.
“Thank you, Miss Baker, we’ll be in touch as soon as we hear anything,” Inspector Hammond says over his shoulder, as the four men file uncomfortably through the narrow doorway.
Johnnie shakes his head. “Inspector Plod has got about as much chance of solving this case as I have of starring in a Hollywood movie.”
I’m shaking so much my jaw hurts with the effort of keeping it clenched, but I hardly dare open my mouth in case I start screaming. I need to find her now, not talk about who might hurt her or who might have taken her.
A client has made me a cup of tea, and when I look up I see more clients behind the reception desk. We are definitely closed and the big pink clock on the wall is showing ten minutes past nine, yet I recognise Mrs Acton, ancient Mrs Marchfield with her cloud of white hair, and the equally elderly Mrs Carpenter.
“Don’t worry, love,” Mrs Acton reassures me. “The reinforcements have arrived. Johnnie knows he can rely on us in a crisis. We didn’t go through the war to get beaten by some lunatic who thinks he can just take our girls off the streets.”
I thank her and sin
k into a chair. I close my eyes and ignore the bustle.
When I open them again, James is sitting opposite me, tipping his chair back against the cherubs on the wall. Kenny is perched on one of the shelves under the mirror, till Johnnie yells at him to get off.
“I’m so sorry, Ruby, I came as soon as I got the message,” James says. “Look, we’ll find her, okay? Tell us what you want us to write.”
“Thanks.” I finish the tea, wishing it was something stronger, and give him the details. “So what do you need first?” I’m going to get through this by being as organised as possible. We will find my best friend and she will be safe.
“Well, I suggest we go with whatever you think will help us find her. Gut instinct — do you think this is connected to the murders? Or do you want us to name her husband and say anything about that? I know you told us in confidence, but if there is the slightest chance he could be involved—” James’s blue eyes are vivid against his tan, and his dark hair is tousled. He shoves back a handful of fringe from his sweaty forehead. Lines of fierce concentration net around his mouth. “I want to help, Ruby.”
While I run quickly through the basics, watching their faces as I briefly mention wife-beaters and being followed by a stranger, I consider this carefully. It has been very important to ensure the police know as much I can tell them about Derek and the watcher, but the press are another matter. “No, I really don’t think her husband is involved. But maybe just mention they aren’t together any more. We need to keep everyone focused on the fact that the murderer is probably local, not have them thinking it’s some revenge act by her husband. Honestly, I think this is to do with the other cases.”
“The bastard. Whoever’s got her, Ruby, we’ll find him,” Kenny says. His normally sweet face looks almost brutal for once. “We’ll emphasise that she’s local, pregnant, and works here. Just that will get half the people in Brighton looking for her. In many ways this place is still a village, and we look after our own!”