Detective Ruby Baker series Box Set
Page 25
Abandoning all pretence of normality, we turn to look again at the little intruder. “If she would only talk to us, tell us where she came from,” I say, sitting down next to the girl and gently taking her cold hand. She lets me, but clenches the other fist on her mug until her knuckles go white. Her eyes are big and grey, rain-soaked hair dark brown, and she could be any age from about ten to fourteen.
“I’m Ruby. What’s your name?” I say gently to the girl, but she stares blankly at me, her eyes unfocused, mouth clenched tightly shut. “Do you come from Brighton?” Nothing, so I turn to the others. “She can stay on my bed for tonight and then I’ll ring the police from the salon in the morning. They should be able to find out where she came from.”
“You’ll be safe here,” Kenny tells the girl kindly, but she still doesn’t speak, just sips her drink, watching us all warily.
James throws his wet jacket over his shoulders. “Not often your night ends like this, but I’m glad she’s OK.” His dark hair is springing up in damp tufts, and his soaked shirt clings to his chest. “I can’t wait to get dry, so shall we head off?”
When the others have gone, I finish towelling off and grab a blanket to make a bed on the floor. Pearl was reluctant to leave but eventually I ushered them out, promising to telephone everyone in the morning when I’ve spoken to the police. Mary changes Summer’s nappy and puts her down into her little crib. The baby gives a little yawn and blinks hard, but then settles without a fuss.
“Are you sure about this?” Mary asks, casting a doubtful look at our guest, who is still perched on my bed in her nest of towels and blankets. Her eyes are open, but she stares vacantly around the room. She’s taller than she looked on the beach, or cradled in Kenny’s arms, with long gangly legs and a heart-shaped face. Her lashes are thick and dark, and the grey gaze finally comes to rest on the wall behind our table. “Why don’t you sleep in my bed? There’s just about room, I think.”
“It’s fine. What else can we do with her? It’s past midnight, and she’s just a child. Whatever has happened to her . . . and I don’t even want to think why she was down on the beach, but if she won’t even tell us her name, we can’t do much more. It'll be up to the police to find her parents. Don’t worry, I’ll be OK crashing on the floor.” I don’t say it but I want to be right next to the girl, just in case she starts screaming again. I’m not taking any chances with Summer in the room.
“You didn’t see anyone else on the beach?” Mary’s voice is hushed, and she leans towards me as I wash up the mugs.
“No, but I did wonder if she went down there with her mother and then . . . well, you know,” I whisper, “she was shouting for someone to come back. I don’t know if she's been in the sea but if she has she’s lucky to be alive. Those waves were enormous.”
“No wonder she won’t speak.” Mary shakes her head, rubbing her eyes.
She walks over to my bed. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “I’m Mary. My baby is called Summer. Do you like babies?”
For a second the frozen face registers something like interest, just a flicker of intelligence or emotion, and the lashes tremble as she turns to Mary. I hold my breath, but then it’s gone, and she wraps her arms around her body.
“Would you like to put some dry clothes on? Look, I’ve got a nightdress. It will be much too big but we can roll up the sleeves . . .” I put it on the sheet next to her, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
The girl retreats further up my bed and curls tighter into her nest of blankets, so I give up. She is safe, and I’ll be sleeping right next to her in any case. Picking my way through the mess of discarded towels and rugs, I select another dry blanket and lay down on the bare boards, pulling the thickest blanket over my body and resting my head on a pile of dirty washing. I’ve slept in worse places. A last quick glance at the figure on my bed before I turn the lamp out reveals she is still in the same position, staring at the blank wall opposite the bed again. What does she see on the white-washed bricks? Or has she done what I did back then and pushed it all away to fester at the back of her mind?
Chapter Two
The baby is screaming again. Her piercing cries echo around the little bedsit, and bounce out into the dark streets below.
“I’ll do her this time, Mary,” I say, yawning, and fumbling with the sheets. “You need a break.”
Mary sits up too, her thin face strained, brow puckered with worry. “No, it’s alright, I’ll do it. Not like I can get back to sleep, is it?” She tries for a little smile but it never reaches her eyes.
I know what she means — what with Summer waking us up every few hours, and the nagging problem of the foundling from the storm, I’m struggling to get any rest at all. It’s been three days since we rescued the girl off the beach, and she’s never far from my thoughts. The police came to fetch her in response to my telephone call, but say they have no idea where she came from. There have been no schoolchildren reported missing, no frantic parents queuing up, desperate to be reunited with their daughter. The girl showed no emotion as she was led away by the police, and her blank stare bothers me more than if she had screamed and cried. I need to see her again. Apparently if they can’t trace any relatives she’ll have go into an orphanage. They don’t even know her name because she hasn’t spoken a word since her rescue. Pearl and Victoria are convinced that she came down on the train from London and her mother went into the sea and drowned, leaving her daughter on the beach. I told the police about her shouting “Come back!” at the waves and they seemed to think that made sense.
Mary, however, is just as convinced that there is something sinister going on, and given our shared experiences I can sort of see her point. The child’s dress was old and worn, with a rip in the skirt. Even taking into account her recent experience, in the daylight we could see faded bruises on her stick-thin arms, and a red puckered burn on her leg. Clearly, however old she actually is, she has been having a rough time.
I pad over to the little wooden crib and carefully pick up Summer. Her red face is scrunched, her toothless gums exposed as she carries on screeching and waving her arms around. When she isn’t screaming her head off, she’s adorable. It’s just unfortunate she seems to be a bit of a night owl. I can just about cope with waking up at four in the morning, like today, but anything before that is the absolute pits, and poor Mary is exhausted.
“Here you go.” I hand the baby to her mother, who cradles her expertly, and leans back against her pillows, pulling her nightdress down. “Surely she can’t need feeding again?”
“Well, it seems to be the only way to shut her up!” Mary snaps, frowning with concentration. She looks up suddenly, mortified. “Oh God, I didn’t mean that . . . I just mean everyone keeps telling me she should be on the bottle and then she’ll feed less, but I’m sick of hearing it.”
“Sorry.” I wander over to heat up some milk. “Look, it’s half past four, I’ll do us some tea and toast.” The wooden floorboards are cold on my bare feet, and I shiver in my short pink nightdress.
There is silence while the baby suckles, and I stir the pan. Reaching down to the bottom cupboard, I collect mugs before hacking through half a loaf of bread. I need to go shopping again today. Mostly we just eat fish and chips, or sausage and mash with tinned peas, but it still costs more than a packet of cigarettes, which is what I’m used to having in the evening.
We haven’t been going out much since the baby arrived, and Beth’s party was the first time I’d been away from Mary and the baby in the evening since she was born. It was a blast — I’ve really missed the long, hot summer nights out with our friends. We’d grab a few glasses of beer, and maybe a hotdog down by the pier if we were starving, then move from the coffee bars to the Starlight Rooms or the Regent for some proper dancing. Last month the Beatles played at the Hippodrome, but Summer had a bad cold and I stayed with Mary to nurse her. Not that we could’ve afforded tickets anyway, but still . . . I sigh a bit louder than I mean to and hastily change it into a cough
.
“I’m sorry, Ruby. I know how tired you are, and I know you’re trying to help, but sometimes I think I’m a really bad mum. All the time at the moment, actually. She shouldn’t be screaming all night now. She should have settled . . .”
I look at my best friend, with her eyes all shadowed, her yellow hair lank and greasy, the baby attached to her breast. A tear trickles down her pale cheek, quickly followed by another. Of course I don’t want to, but I immediately think of Mum. I never wondered what she was like before she had all her kids. I shove the thought away — she’s safe now, and happier than she has been in ages, though all that came at a price.
“I’m sure I’m doing something wrong, but when I asked the midwife she said it was normal to be emotional and some babies just cry lots.” Mary bites her bottom lip anxiously, shifting Summer to the other side.
“Oh Mary, you aren’t a bad mum! You’re the best, and we knew it was going to be hard. I mean, hell, I’ve had so many brothers and sisters to look after I know the drill backwards. But Summer is lovely, and besides, Pearl said it was probably just early teething, so we know there isn’t anything seriously wrong. It’s just because you need more sleep you’re feeling down . . .” I dump the bottle of milk on the work top, and carry a mug of tea over to the bed.
“Thanks, Rubes.” Mary takes the mug with her free hand and gulps the brown liquid, pulling faces as it burns her mouth. “I’m sure Pearl’s right, especially with her being a nurse and everything. The midwife at the hospital did say most of them start sleeping better at around four months . . . I suppose I just think that when Summer is crying I should be able to soothe her, and I can’t, except by feeding.”
“My sister Garnet was like that. According to Mum she was permanently attached to her breast for the first six months.” I pull a face of my own, covering my chest. “That’s got to hurt!”
Mary laughs properly, relaxing into her old self at last. The baby stops feeding, smacks her lips and studies us both with big dark blue eyes. She has a little rosebud mouth, and a soft down of hair, and like I said, when she isn’t making loads of noise she is pretty sweet.
By now the first streaks of silver dawn are starting to show through the dark night sky — sharp tears in paper that will eventually, hopefully, reveal a golden summer day. The flat is small, but the huge floor to ceiling windows give an illusion of space. Our little kitchen area is crammed with cutlery and piles of washing.
“Not worth going back to sleep now, is it?” I say, yawning again. We have to be at work by eight, but luckily we live above the hairdressing salon where we are junior stylists, so it doesn’t take long to throw on some clothes and stagger downstairs.
I have a quick cold wash and extract my pink and grey uniform from the pile of clothes next to my bed. My white-blonde hair is short, so I only need to run a comb through it and spritz a halo of hairspray. The baby watches placidly as I sort through my makeup, before painting on pink lipstick and a double coat of mascara.
“Here, I’ll watch her now, while you get ready,” I tell Mary, picking up a little knitted doll and making it dance around Summer’s head.
Mary pulls a face in the mirror, splashes her face in the sink, and pins her hair back in a plait. There is a mark on the front of her blouse but when I point it out she just shrugs. “It’s alright, the pinny will hide it, and I haven’t got time to wash it out.”
The morning sun is dancing across the sea by the time we slip out of our front door. I give the baby a kiss on her soft little cheek, and then Mary carries her off to the babysitter. Ship Street is empty apart from a few market workers carrying crates of vegetables to a van, and a brown-suited old man walking up from the promenade. He stops to catch his breath, leaning against a cobbled wall, smiling at me from under a mass of tanned wrinkles. I smile back and he moves on. I set up the chairs and tables outside the salon, arranging them at precise right angles, enjoying the warmth, the salt on my lips and the familiar Brighton smells of fish and dust.
Finishing my task, I push my hair back and pin a stray wisp of blonde into my fringe, shoving thoughts of the Beach Girl to the back of my mind. Every time the telephone rings at the salon I expect it to be the police telling me they’ve found her parents, or even that she’s started speaking again. But it never is. I suppose she’ll end up at the orphanage.
Kenny and James are both junior reporters at the Brighton Herald, so they did a great story on the dramatic rescue of ‘Beach Girl’. As they’d been right there, the editor didn’t have much choice but to let them write the front page, and inside, James did a double-page spread on how many people have drowned in the last two summers on Brighton beach. I’m not sure that was very helpful, actually, given that the paper is usually covered in adverts encouraging people to holiday here, but he was pleased with it.
Later the sun will heat the town up, and I’ll be thinking of iced drinks and a dip down at Black Rock swimming pool, or in the sea, but just now the gentle golden warmth is perfect. With the past firmly behind me, I can finally enjoy my new home. Who would want to be anywhere else?
For an hour or so I have the salon to myself. I get on with laying out clean towels, having a quick dust of the cherub-encrusted mirrors, and pouring out conditioner from the huge green glass bottles. The sharp, chemical smell makes me wrinkle my nose, and I have to concentrate hard to stop myself sneezing.
Glancing out of the salon windows as I sweep the floor an hour later, I see Mary hurrying back up the road, and Eve, one of the senior stylists, walking briskly down the hill. I like being a hairdresser, and I love living in Brighton, but I still find it hard to believe that only a few months ago I was running away from a dark alley with bloodstained hands . . . Quite a career change, from murderer to washing people’s hair, but I like to think I’ve handled it well. I still get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach if I see a policeman on a bike, and my stepdad, George, sometimes visits me in my dreams, but I’m sure in a few years I will have forgotten all about it. Everyone has a few secrets to hide, don’t they?
“Are you alright, Mary? Did she settle OK?” I ask as my best friend stumbles through the door, closely followed by Eve.
While stout-bodied Eve glows with health, her cheeks pink from the sunny walk, Mary’s face is pale in the sun’s harsh brightness. She has a red spot on her chin I didn’t notice earlier, and she suddenly seems to have aged about five years in a week. We’ve been so busy with work and the baby, it feels like ages since I actually had a proper chat with my best friend. When we were attending teacher training classes, we used to dawdle home, even if it was raining, talking about everything. In fact, it was on one of those rainy walks that we decided it was time to leave Croydon . . .
“Oh dear. Did you have a bad night, girls?” Eve asks. The sound of her voice jolts me back to the present. She’s been at Johnnie’s salon ever since he opened it and although she makes us work hard, she has a heart of solid gold. Just now I see her direct gaze take in our purple-shadowed eyes and pale expressions. She hangs her thick wool coat on the hook and flicks through the contents of her handbag, frowning.
“Not great. Mrs Carpenter has taken her this morning, so I said to Mary she should have an early lunch break and get half an hour’s sleep if that’s still OK?” I stifle another jaw-cracking yawn.
“Of course, love. Oh, here’s the shopping list! I thought I’d left it behind. Have you tried gripe water for Summer? Works wonders. I’ll nip out and get you some later.” Eve smiles at us kindly, but Mary’s lip wobbles. “And don’t worry about crying all the time either. I did it for six months with my Alfie. Right in the middle of conversations, at work, even in the Co-op. It’s natural!”
“Thanks, Eve!” Mary recovers quickly, but with visible effort. She heads out the back to prepare the usual morning tray of tea, and I continue to scurry around, checking off extra jobs in my head. I wash a load of towels, hang them out in the courtyard, and flick through the appointment book.
“Morning,
my angels!” Johnnie strides in through the door at ten minutes to nine, looking gorgeous in a mint green shirt, jeans and a dark green tweed jacket. His blonde hair flops across his cat-like blue eyes, and that lazy smile shows off perfect white teeth. “How’s my little goddaughter this morning?”
Mary dumps the laden tray onto the reception desk, and pins back a stray wisp of hair. “Mrs Carpenter’s got her until five, thank God. She had a bad night.”
“Oh, poor little love. And poor you. What would we do without darling Joyce to help us out? There is nothing that woman cannot cope with.”
“I suppose we’d still be keeping Summer in that old cardboard box next to the store cupboard like we did when she was first born?” I suggest, grinning at the memory.
“No news on the girl you rescued off the beach, I take it?” Eve says.
I shake my head. “The police are getting annoyed with me keeping on ringing up and asking about her, I think. The desk sergeant obviously thinks I’m a total ditz, but I did manage to speak to that nice WPC Stanton, and she said there isn’t a lot more they can do if the girl doesn’t tell them anything. She did say the doctors think she is about thirteen, and she seems healthy enough, despite the bruises and things. It’s so frustrating, and I feel sort of responsible, because I found her.”
“Darling, I think we all agree that her mother probably drowned. It is terribly sad, but if you hadn’t spotted her on the beach she would be dead too.” Johnnie sips tea, leaning against the wall, studying me through narrowed blue eyes. “I know you don’t like the thought of her going into an orphanage, but from what you say, it might be a better place for her.”
“They haven’t found a body, though,” I say stubbornly. “She might even have been on the beach by herself. You know, she might even have been staying with someone and wandered off and got lost.”
Johnnie shrugs. “At eleven o’clock at night? Sometimes they don’t ever find a body, or it gets washed up miles along the coast. With the storm, anything could have happened.” He’s running his eyes down the page of appointments now, suddenly jabbing a finger onto the page as he studies an entry near the top. “Bloody hell! Who booked in Beverly Collins?”