by Daisy White
“Is she off already?” Mary asks wide-eyed, setting down the dustpan and brush. “I thought she had a colour booked?”
I sigh. “Tell you later. Do you want me to do Miss Thomas’s manicure as I’m free?”
“Please, then I can crack on with the shampooing.” Mary yawns, and rubs her eyes furiously. “I wish I wasn’t so bloody tired all the time!”
“It’ll pass. You’re doing fine,” I tell her, stifling yet another yawn of my own.
Despite my good intentions, I drift off a bit while I’m busy painting Miss Thomas’s nails, and she snaps at me for smudging a bit on her thumb. I blink drowsily like an idiot and drag my thoughts back from a little girl snatched from her mother — missing for ten years. If she is still alive why has nobody found her? Even in my own mind Ella keeps getting mixed up with the Beach Girl. How strange that Beverly should be released and then a seemingly motherless child appears on Brighton beach. But she isn’t Ella. Her own mother would know her, and there are, as she said, physical differences. It is odd, though.
The day passes in the usual blur of activity, but despite repeated questioning from Catherine and Eve, I tell no one about Beverly’s strange request. I explain her quick exit by saying she didn’t like the stares and gossiping. At four, during my cigarette break, I run down the road towards the sea, inhaling the golden warmth of the day and enjoying the hazy shimmer of the blue waves as they lap the beach.
There is a telephone box at the end of Ship Street, down on the promenade, and I wait impatiently for a well-dressed man to finish his conversation before diving in and shoving a coin in the slot. The receiver is sticky with dirty fingerprints, and I hold it gingerly while I dial the number from memory.
The phone rings for ages, and I drum my fingers on the hot glass side of the telephone box, breathing in the stale smells of metal and sweat. A bored voice finally says, “News desk, how can I help?”
“Hi Kenny, it’s Ruby. Can you talk for a minute?”
“Hallo, Rubes. Before you ask, I haven’t got anything else on Beach Girl, and the police haven’t either, according to my source. I’m not exactly chasing any hot stories at the moment. The highlight of my week so far, after our poor little Beach Girl of course, has been some woman jumping off the pier . . .” he sighs.
“Oh, how awful — did she drown?”
“No, turns out she’s a former diving champion and expert swimmer who thought she’d get a bit of practice in. Unfortunately most people panic when they see a sixty-something old lady bail off the end of the pier . . .”
“Quite. Look Kenny, this isn’t a story for you, but I want to check something on Beverly Collins. You know about her?”
His voice sharpens with interest, and I picture him sitting up straight and raking his hand through his hair, his grey eyes gleaming at the prospect of some real news. “Of course! She was released two weeks ago. That was front-page news. So what do you want to know? Or should I ask why?”
“She turned up at the salon today, and asked me to help her find her missing daughter, Ella. I want to know exactly what she was convicted of, where she was in prison . . . And anything else you might have on her background, I suppose . . . Hang on.”
An old woman is tapping furiously on the window of the telephone box, and pointing at her watch. I’ve only been in here a couple of minutes! Frowning, I shake my head firmly at her and turn my back.
Kenny is clearly impressed with my news. “Bloody hell. She actually asked you to help her? Why?”
“Ruby Baker’s Investigation Bureau — remember? Her neighbour helped look for Mary when she was kidnapped, and she told Beverly about me. Now Beverly thinks I’m some kind of amateur detective. Before you ask, Beach Girl is not her missing daughter, because I thought of that too, and she saw it in the paper and went rushing down to the police station thinking it might be Ella . . .”
“Hmmm, poor woman, that must have hit her hard. You make a far prettier sleuth than Inspector Plod anyway, and as far as I remember you were far more successful in tracking down the perpetrator of one particular crime.”
“That was because it was personal, Kenny, and you know it. So can you find out about the conviction, and let me know any other information you might have? Please? If there is a story in this you know I’ll come straight to you.”
“I'll tell you if you go on a date with me. Or we could skip the date and just make out?”
“Kenny!” But I’m smiling. I suppose one day Kenny might get a girlfriend, and then we’ll all be safe.
He’s laughing too. “OK, OK, give me an hour and I’ll ring you back. Are you at the salon?”
“No,” I say quickly, “I don’t want to tell anyone until I know if I’m going to take this on. I’ll ring you after work from the phone box.”
“OK Rubes, I’ll get onto it right now. Unless of course I get a major story in . . .”
I put the receiver down, surprised to find my hand is damp with sweat, and I’m a little bit dizzy. Well, it is a hot day. The packed beach is decorated with colourful day-trippers, and the man who rents deckchairs seems to have given out all his stock. He waves as I exit the telephone box, and I wave back, standing for a minute to enjoy the scene. The impatient old lady has vanished, presumably to find an empty telephone box elsewhere.
Taking a deep breath of warm salty air, I try to calm my heartbeat. Telling Kenny I might be going to help find Beverly’s daughter has just made it real. Should I really do this? But my brain is buzzing with ideas, and at the back of my mind, I keep seeing a little girl holding her mother’s hand, and then that same little girl vanishes and the mother is crying. And what about Beach Girl? Is it really coincidence? Beverly may not have shown much emotion, but when she talked about her daughter, the pain seemed to roll around her in invisible waves. I lean against the railings, listening to the rush and hiss of the sea as the water rises over the stones, before rolling back with a crash of froth and bubbles.
Children are screaming and laughing at the water’s edge, with their parents fussing over sun hats and beach umbrellas. I should hurry back, but instead I light another cigarette, and stand, thinking, on the baking seafront. The seagulls whirl and twist lazily in the warm blue air, spiralling up until they are no more than white specks over the Channel.
Is she innocent? Reluctantly, I turn and walk slowly back up to the salon, stopping once to grind the finished cigarette underfoot. By the time I reach the gleaming white and gold front of Johnnie’s salon, I know one thing: if Beverly is telling the truth, I’m going to help her. I suppose I’ve known ever since she asked. There is something compelling about her, about her tragic story. It makes me think of baby Summer. Would I be doing this if Mary and I weren’t bringing up a little girl ourselves?
Later, as we close up I wave off my colleagues, and Mary heads off to collect Summer from Jackie, neighbour of the formidable Joyce, and another helpful babysitter. Jackie has six kids of her own and she’s an absolute angel. She told Mary straight away that she couldn’t care less if the dad was around or not, and she was happy to take Summer as much as Mary needs. Her kids are great too — a talkative, grubby, happy brood who spend a lot of time on their dad’s allotment.
Telling Mary that I’ll get some shopping on the way home gives me more time with Beverly. I get a little niggle of guilt at lying, but really my best friend has enough going on without worrying about me turning detective again.
This time the telephone box is empty, and I push my way past a group of small boys kicking a football against the glass sides.
“News desk.”
“Hi Kenny, it’s me. Have you got anything?”
“Loads. Do you want to meet up tonight and I’ll give you some light reading, or do you want the gist of it now?”
“Now, please, if you’ve got a minute. Hang on, let me put some more money in . . .” I fumble for another coin and shove it into the slot. I could have telephoned from the salon now everyone’s gone home, but until I’ve told ev
eryone about the case, I feel a bit . . . guilty, I suppose. “I’m meeting her in half an hour, so if you could just give me the most important bits, then I can meet you at lunch break tomorrow and get the rest.”
“OK. So Beverly Collins was a perfectly normal mum living on the White Oak estate. She had just the one kid, Ella, and her boyfriend left them soon after she was born. Must have been a nice chap! That’s the only thing that stands out, that she was a single mum. You know better than anyone how some people are about that, because of Mary. Anyway, she worked down the fish market for a bit, then she cleaned some offices for a bank. It says she reported the kid missing in the evening. She had been playing just outside the house with some others as usual. Beverly went in for a drink, and when she came back Ella was gone.”
“None of the other kids saw anything? That’s a bit strange.”
“No, the strange bit is that most of the other kids were too young to say anything much, but there was an eight-year-old girl keeping an eye on them all, who swore than Beverly took Ella in with her to get a drink. The girl also said Ella was a bit whiny and her mum was cross with her.”
“OK . . . Go on.”
“Beverly was questioned, but three weeks later actually arrested. It seems that the evidence against her just kept conveniently stacking up. Bloody clothes found in a bonfire in her backyard, blood in Ella’s bedroom, and plenty of people coming forward to say she was verging on being a loony who drank too much and couldn’t take care of her kid. She swore they were lying, of course.”
“A loony? No wonder she said people hated her. But I can’t understand why her neighbours or whoever would come forward with things like that if they weren’t true. Likewise the girl who said she took Ella inside with her the day she allegedly went missing.” I think for a moment. Maybe they all just hated her because she was an unmarried mother? I know Mary gets quite a few comments, although of course her situation is slightly different . . .
Kenny says suddenly, “I suppose the neighbours could have been bribed. It was a very high profile case, so the police were under pressure to solve it and let everyone see that justice was being done. Anything involving a child is always big news. The trouble with this one was they didn’t ever find a body. Just for the record, the policemen mentioned in the case are an Inspector Roberts, who retired in ’58, and a DC Appleton, who I believe is over in Hastings now. Probably been promoted by now.”
“Not Inspector Hammond? That’s a shame. Come to think of it, I think Johnnie said he's only been in Brighton for five years. OK, so before my money runs out, if she wasn’t tried for murder, what was she convicted of?”
“Child cruelty. She was sent to Holloway. I mean, they obviously had to get her for something, or the police would’ve looked really stupid — all that evidence and she gets off free? Ten years is pretty harsh, but she was never going to hang for murder without a body, even with all that supposed evidence against her.”
I consider this, a sick feeling working its way up from my stomach to my throat. “If she’d been convicted of murder would she have hung?”
“Doubt it. The Home Office have the final say, but I don’t think any women convicted of murder have actually been hanged since Ruth Ellis. I’ll have a bit more of a dig around and if I get some more information I’ll bring it with me tomorrow. I must say, the woman’s got a lot of gumption, coming back here. Makes me think she might be innocent after all. I just hope everyone else thinks that or she could find herself in real trouble.”
“Oh hell, my money’s running out. Thanks Kenny, you’re an angel! See you tomorrow at about one.” I ring off, heart pounding, adrenalin crackling round my veins. If Beverly was set up it was a pretty big operation. Could you really bribe so-called witnesses? And what about the bloodstained clothes in her house?
Chapter Five
Glancing at my watch I see I’m nearly late for my meeting with Beverly, and dart into the traffic, dodging a big cream open top bus and a few motorbikes. My pink and grey uniform sticks to my back and even my bare legs are damp with sweat. I rake my short blonde hair back with all ten fingernails, and march up towards Brenda’s Cafe.
Beverly is waiting, a large straw sunhat obscuring her view of the road. She is sitting up very straight, thin shoulders rigid and square, and a few stray brown curls have escaped from her messy chignon.
I wave at Brenda, and she yells, “Hallo darling! You want your usual, I suppose?”
“Just tea, please.” I’m starving but I’m not sure if I want to have a meal with Beverly Collins. Despite the hat, a few elderly customers are staring openly, whispering as they eat their chicken and chips. I never realised how hard it must be to be famous, especially in a criminal capacity.
Beverly turns at the sound of my voice, and her face is set in that slightly hard, wary expression, but her eyes are bright and hopeful. I grab a rusty metal chair and yank it to the table with a screech before settling myself opposite. I’ve smoked too much already this afternoon, and my throat hurts, but I shake another cigarette out of the packet. Sweat is damp across my shoulder blades and under my arms — I wish I’d had time to go home and change out of my grubby uniform.
Beverly declines a cigarette and gets straight down to business. “Have you decided to help me?”
I take a breath of smoke, blowing it out into the sunshine, where it hangs for a moment in the hot, dust-filled air. Brenda’s food is amazing, but she’s never been very keen on housekeeping. Mind you, with the cafe to run, a hard-working husband to look after, and five kids, why should she bother with a few cobwebs?
“Ruby?”
“Yes. I will help you . . .” I hold up a hand like a policeman giving a traffic signal, “but I can’t promise anything. Your daughter went missing ten years ago. I’ve only lived in Brighton for six months, and I’m not sure the police like me very much, so they won’t help. But you’re right, I do have a few friends who might be willing to do some digging.”
She takes a sip of her own tea, considering. “I take it that you did some research. Does anyone else work with you when you do investigations?”
“I’ve only done one investigation! It isn’t a proper business or anything. But one of my friends works for the Brighton Herald, and he gave me a brief outline of what happened to you.” I stub my cigarette out as Brenda stomps over with tea and half a basket of chips. “Oh, thanks, Brenda, but I don’t need . . .”
“Of course you do, love, you’ll waste away working up at that salon all hours. Get them down you. Oh, and Ruby, love?”
“Yes?”
Brenda looks carefully at my companion, and then addresses me as though Beverly was invisible, and deaf. “You be careful who you have a drink with. That’s all I’m saying.” She nods briskly, and heaves her bulk off to attend to a crowd of young girls who have settled at the next table.
“That’s one of the reasons I can ask you for help. You weren’t here when it happened so you don’t judge me,” Beverly says. There is no anger in her voice now, only a type of flat sadness that belies the determination in those warm brown eyes.
I scoop up a handful of hot chips before pushing the basket over to my companion, who shakes her head. She wraps her hands around her tea, clutching it so hard with those pale fingers that I’m surprised the cup doesn’t break.
“OK. So Kenny, my reporter friend, said that there was a whole lot of really convenient evidence against you, but I assume that much of it was lies, or you wouldn’t be sitting here now. I suppose there are two main questions. Firstly, what really happened to Ella? Secondly, why would someone set you up like that?”
Beverly brushes a hand across her face wearily. “I have thought and thought about that, but honestly, I’m just normal. Or I was,” she adds bitterly as another load of whisperers walk past gawping. “My boyfriend left me when Ella was about two years old. He just came home one day and told me he wasn’t ready to settle down, and he was going to America with a friend of his. They were going to work as lo
rry drivers or something . . . I never heard from him again, and the police couldn’t trace him. It was hard enough being an unmarried mother, but far worse being a mother without anyone at all. I sometimes wonder if that was when everyone started to hate me. You know they tried to say I was mad and that I drank too much? There was one particular policeman who kept pushing that. Appleton he was called, a right bastard.” She helps herself to some chips and chews quickly, sneaking furtive looks around the cafe.
“I heard about the rumours, the drinking and the gossip about you not being a fit mother. . .” I’m suddenly very aware of the other customers listening in on our conversation. “Look, if you’ve finished your tea, do you want to walk along the seafront for a bit?”
“Yes, I’m done.” She puts some money down on the table, and when I try to add my own she pushes my hand away. “I’ll get this. I had a little bit saved up. You've given me the first ray of hope in ten years.”
No pressure at all, then. I drain my own cup and wave at Brenda, who blows me a kiss. We wander back across the road and join the anonymous crowds of gaudy holiday makers. I find my usual spot on the railings and turn to her.
“I have to get back soon. The girl I live with had to collect her baby after work so I said I’d get some shopping.”
She nods, understanding. “But you want me to tell you what happened that night before you go.”
“That might be a good starting point,” I agree cautiously.
“Ella was playing just outside the house with a group of other kids. Lots of different ages, but I knew all of them. I popped back inside to grab a drink of water. It was water, not a beer, no matter what anyone says. I was gone maybe ten or fifteen minutes at the most, because I realised I needed to get the washing in from the back yard . . . When I came back out most of the kids were still there, but Ella and a couple of others were missing. I didn’t panic right away, of course. This was our road, and our home. All the kids played out. I just assumed she'd gone across to one of the other houses.