by Daisy White
It isn’t. “What happened on the beach yesterday? Who was the woman who drowned? And the girl who tried to kidnap a little child?”
“Were you there?” Inspector Hammond’s voice is idle, resigned even, but the eyes are still hard. Again I’m reminded that despite his physical appearance and slightly awkward social skills, he is pretty good at dealing with criminals. His colleague is staring so hard, I can practically feel his gaze strip skin off my face, but at least he is now looking at my face instead of my breasts. All trace of superiority gone, he’s trying to read my mind. Why? Is there a link to Beverly and the incident on the beach?
“I was swimming in the sea when I saw the body. Some men came and hauled her in to shore. I didn’t see where she came from or anything or I’d have told the policemen on the beach. Same with the kidnapping. I was there but not near enough to see anything. I was actually queuing for chips and a couple of people told me what happened. It seems a bit odd to have two major incidents on the beach within a couple of hours of each other, doesn’t it? Not just those things, but Beach Girl . . . I mean the girl we rescued off the beach in the storm.”
The inspector clears his throat. “You haven’t lived here long, have you, Ruby? Unfortunately we get incidents on the beach all the time in the summer. Missing children are common, and so, sadly, are bodies. Day-trippers without a proper knowledge of tides get caught out, or some poor souls who mean to end their lives in Brighton. Normally they go to Beachy Head, but the tide can wash bodies up anywhere along the coast, depending on current and wind direction.”
“So you think that this woman did take her own life?”
“It’s a possibility. Her name was Susie Stocker, and we know she had been ill for some time. Her husband has confirmed that she knew she wouldn’t get better and she had been very emotional recently. A very sad case.”
My mind buzzes with the name but I can’t quite place it. “And the girl on the beach? Can you tell if she was her daughter?”
“We are investigating the possibility. I will tell you that at present we have no knowledge of Mrs Stocker having had a child, so it seems unlikely.” The inspector smiles, lighting a cigarette. “Has Miss Collins mentioned any trouble to you? Since she came back, I mean . . .”
That’s it, then, he’s given me a little titbit and now he wants me to play nicely too. “No, she hasn’t. I do think it is odd that Laura Grieves suddenly decided to come forward though — don’t you?”
He blows out a plume of smoke and rubs a big hand through his grey hair, making it stand up in sweaty spikes. “Possibly.”
“And the kidnapping on Sunday?”
DS Little scowls at Hammond, clearly deciding he has put up with me for long enough. He leans forward, elbows on the table, so close I can smell his sour breath. “With respect, that is nothing to do with you. And the supposed ‘kidnapping’ on Sunday was a misunderstanding between a group of women.” He emphasises the word women, and lets his gaze drop disdainfully to my chest.
“Right. Well then, I’m afraid I really don’t know any more, and I need to get back to work,” I tell them, rising from my chair abruptly, glaring at DS Little.
They glance at each other, back at me, and then to my surprise, get up to go.
“Thank you, Miss Baker. We’ll be in touch,” Inspector Hammond says, polite as ever, smiling again, straightening his tie. DS Little nods at me, still scowling, and they stomp off down the hill to the waiting police car. I squint after them, wondering how much more they know that I don’t. I’m also wondering if Laura told them I was helping Beverly, and if so exactly what she is playing at . . .
“Why didn’t they arrest you?” Johnnie asks, as I walk briskly back into the salon and throw myself into shampooing.
I roll my eyes at him, “Because I’m innocent, of course!”
All the clients have seen me sitting with the police so the general chat is all about what crime I may or may not have committed. This continues even though I’m now actually back in the room. When I nip out to make more cups of tea, Mary follows me.
“What’s going on? What did they say to you?” Her face is pale and worried.
“Nothing. Well, they just asked me if it was true that Beverly asked me to look for her missing daughter. In fact, they said they knew it was true, and then told me to keep my big nose out of trouble and leave the investigating to the police.”
“They said that?”
“In a nicer way, I suppose. Tell you what, though, they practically ran down the hill to get away when I started asking about that kidnapping and the body on the beach yesterday. They did say that the woman in the sea was called Susie Stocker, and they implied she probably did take her own life, because she was sick and not likely to get better. That vile little man with Hammond was DS Little. He said the kidnapping was just a misunderstanding. Oh, and Hammond is on the case investigating whether Susie Stocker was Beach Girl’s mother. Chances are she isn’t because they don’t think she had a child.”
Mary chews a fingernail, no flicker of recognition at the name of the dead woman. “I was talking to Mrs Carpenter when I dropped Summer off and she has a friend who is the sister of the parents whose little girl was supposedly being kidnapped . . . OK, even I’m confused now. Anyway, the parents were adamant they’d never seen this other girl before. They said she wasn’t from round here, and they also said she was dressed a bit oddly. Not crazy odd, but in a really old-fashioned frilly party dress — not the kind of thing you'd wear as a teenager.”
“Unless you had old-fashioned parents and were going to a party,” I tell her, adding milk and sugar to the tray. “Anything else?”
Mary shakes her head, “It is horrible, though. I told her not to take her eyes off Summer.”
I reach out for her hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Nobody would get past Joyce Carpenter. I really do think that she was a spy in the war. That ferry pilot job was just a cover.”
To my relief my friend giggles. “You are an idiot. But she is clever. Did you know she speaks fluent French and German?”
“There you go then, I must be right.” I grin at her and march out with the tea tray.
By the time I’ve painted a total of thirty fingernails in assorted colours (the sugar pink is still a hot favourite), I’ve had plenty of time to pick up and sift through all the gossip. The police may tell me to keep out, but this is what they miss. The ebb and flow of conversation in the salon. People exchanging news. Someone saw the kidnapping on the beach, someone else mentioned a blue Ford Anglia driving away far too fast, shortly after the girl was stopped. A client’s husband works in the bakery near the police station, and he saw the girl being brought in. He also mentioned her old-fashioned dress. An enormous, jolly woman called Fiona Majors said she heard a rumour that Susie Stocker had been ‘going downhill for a year or so, poor soul, and her husband had a woman living with them to nurse her full time.’
I ask a few more questions but she doesn’t really know the family, and said she heard it from her friend who’s a housekeeper in the house next door. She tells me it’s a road of big houses, towards Hove, but she can’t think of the name . . .
And so it goes on, until closing time, when Johnnie sighs with relief and shuts the door on the last client. “Well done, darlings, that was a busy, busy day. I’m off out tonight or I would stay and find out what leads our chief investigator has discovered in amongst the gossip. Rubes, I’ve got some free tickets for a magic show at the Hippodrome if you and Mary fancy coming along? Everyone else is coming, I think, oh, apart from Kenny, he hates magicians . . . It’s on Thursday night. Let me know tomorrow. Got to dash, I’m late for an appointment.”
He lopes off up the street, blonde hair golden in the sunlight, leaving us to finish clearing up.
“I’ll finish up if you like. It won’t take long and Catherine has already washed up,” I say. “Then you lot can get off and collect the kids! Oh, and Mary, don’t forget Ted’s coming round later to see Summer . . .
”
I wave as they clatter off gratefully, feeling just slightly odd that Mary, although not much older than me, is now ‘one of the mums’. Catherine and Eve have been so helpful since we told them the truth about Mary’s ex-husband hitting her, and saying the baby wasn’t his. I think before they regarded us as a couple of silly party girls, one of whom had got herself into trouble. But now they know Mary was actually married when she fell pregnant it’s all OK. My mind drifts back to Beverly, and to Laura. They both mentioned that a lot of people didn’t like Beverly because she was an unmarried mum. Ten years ago it must have been even harder to bring up a child on your own.
It takes less than fifteen minutes for me to sweep up, dump the dirty pile of towels in the basket, and put the mugs neatly back on their shelf. I put the milk back in the cool storage box on the steps of the boarded-up cellar. However hot it gets, the brick steps are always cold. Catherine sometimes even keeps a wrap of butter down there for a lunchtime snack of toast. Since there are now five of us working full time, plus a couple of part-timers, Johnnie has invested in a little cooker, and swapped the rusting old sink for a brand new one. The bare boards are now covered in lino and the whole backroom looks more like a proper staff area.
The white brick walls are the same, though, and as I work, I glance over at my paper chart and lists. Finishing up, I push the cupboard door shut and select a pencil from a collection stuffed in an old ginger beer bottle. I draw a neat line from Beverly’s release date to today’s date, and along the line I write down a few quick details of the beach kidnapping. I add the date we found Beach Girl, with a few lines of description. Mary is right — and from their questions, even the police seem to agree, although I’m sure DS Little would rather die rather than admit it. There is something very coincidental about the wrongly convicted mum of a missing girl returning home just in time for the sudden attempted kidnapping of another young girl. Not to mention a dead body in the sea and a lost child on a stormy beach. I rattle that jar of puzzle pieces in my brain.
Chapter Fifteen
Back in the salon, I pick up the telephone. A quick call to the news desk at the Herald draws a blank as Kenny and James are both out, and there is no answer from Kenny’s bedsit.
I head back to my command post, and draw another line from Laura’s name to Beverly’s. Then I scribble the dates of Ella’s initial disappearance, and Beverly’s release. I write ‘Susie Stocker’ carefully in capitals, and at long last it comes back to me why I got that flash of recognition when Inspector Hammond mentioned her name.
Annie on White Oak was talking about a John Stocker who owned houses. Who used to own Beverly’s old house before her uncle bought it. At last I have a connection. Tenuous, but it’s there. Now I just need to find out about this kidnapping . . . There is another thought following quickly along behind, but that would just be too coincidental, and I shove it to the back of my mind. Too many linked events, and all apparently set in motion by Beverly’s release from prison.
I move a step back and stare at my wall charts until a headache nudges at the back of my eyes. My brain refuses to come up with anything helpful, and there are still too many pieces of the jigsaw missing to get anything that might lead us to what really happened ten years ago. Admitting defeat, I lock up the salon before running upstairs to our little bedsit.
Ted and Mary arrive within minutes of each other. He’s brought a big bunch of daisies, some chocolates and a little blue teddy for the baby.
“You didn’t have to do this. It must have cost a fortune!” Mary is delighted with the gifts, and introduces him to a cooing Summer.
Ted shrugs. “I wanted to. I missed you all so much, and now the baby’s so big . . . I remember you as hardly even looking pregnant.” He takes Summer and props her a bit nervously into the crook of his arm. “Am I holding her right? She’s very pretty, isn’t she? Looks like her mum . . .”
I catch Mary’s flush of pleasure and smile at them both.
“So how’s the new investigation going, Ruby?”
I shrug, “Not great.” Quickly, I update him and he says again he can ask around.
“Thanks Ted, anything would be useful. People just don’t want to talk, and I can see why,” Mary says, smoothing Summer’s hair with a gentle hand.
* * *
By Wednesday evening I haven’t made any more progress on the Collins case, and I drag my feet on the way to meet Beverly. Summer, after a few good days, has now started screeching in the evening and most of the night again. Mary is coping but I watch her nervously for signs of a retreat into that blank-eyed indifference.
“Evening, Ruby, I thought we’d just walk along the seafront and chat if that’s alright? Oh, unless you want a cup of tea or some chips?” Beverly is wearing a flower print dress which is a bit big for her, and has added the big hat to shield her from nosy passersby.
She looks so hopeful and pleased to see me, I want to scream with frustration. “Walking is fine.”
We stroll along to an empty spot against the railings, and I smile at her. The pretty girl from the photographs is still there, just, but hidden underneath years of grief. She pushes a curl away from her face in an impatient gesture.
“I tried everyone on the list I got from my friend at the Herald. You were right — most people wouldn’t even talk to me. The person who was really helpful was Annie.”
Beverly smiles. “Annie is always wonderful. Did she give you the envelope?”
“She did.”
“Good. Have you heard about that poor woman who drowned on Sunday? It was in the papers, wasn’t it? I remember Susie Stocker. She used to be in the Herald all the time when I was younger. She was a beauty queen from Eastbourne, and she caught John’s eye when she went to work in one of his clubs, I think. She was much younger than him but it was quite the love story when he asked her to marry him.” Beverly makes the money gesture with her fingers and thumb. “Lots of people thought she was after his cash, but I like to think she actually fell in love with him. They were always out and about, opening new clubs in London and going to big events. Of course, he owned a lot of property all over . . . My uncle bought the house in White Oak from him years ago.”
“Annie told me about that. Did you like the Stockers? I mean, did you meet them?”
Beverly laughs. “Bless you, no! They were like royalty around here with all their money and parties. He used to drive her around in a Roller. They wouldn’t have bothered with me. They didn’t have any children, and their parties were the stuff of legends — champagne baths and fancy food for all those famous people they knew, I heard. Lots of actresses used to come down for the weekend and stay with them. There was always a nice picture in the paper of them all in front of their big house, or dancing at one of the clubs.”
“Did your uncle ever mention John Stocker, or talk about buying the house from him?”
She frowns. “Not that I can remember. My aunt always said it was a good buy and that was what Stocker did. He bought houses and flats cheaply and then either sold them on or rented them out. My uncle did that himself, of course, but in a smaller way. I don’t think my uncle really knew him. Why?”
“Just that the name keeps coming up. I also spoke to Laura Grieves . . .”
She’s shocked, her face pale in the harsh sunlight, and she moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Laura? She spoke to you? What did she say?” The words rattle out sharply.
I look away from her, tracking a family walking across the road, choosing my words carefully. The mother is carrying bags and three children have balloons and candyfloss. “She said she was sorry. She said to tell you she was sorry. You probably didn’t know but before your prison sentence ended she went to the police and admitted she lied the day Ella disappeared.”
“She . . . she what? Why now, after all these years? My God, that was one of the worst things. Laura, who I’d known since she was tiny, telling everyone that awful lie. Now she says she’s sorry? She has no idea. And th
e police never told me.”
“I suppose they wouldn’t. You’d nearly finished your sentence, after all. Can you remember anything about Laura’s family?”
Beverly wrinkles her nose, rubbing her thin pale fingers across her forehead. “Not really. They were a nice family. About six children, I think . . . Oh, I know, her dad was Ron, who was a builder. Now I come to think about it, he worked for John Stocker sometimes too. Funny, I haven’t thought about them all for years, but that’s what it was like then — everyone knew everyone’s business.”
“Yes, they did — which is why someone knows what happened to Ella. Annie mentioned someone called Stan, and he was on the list from my friend. I think you even said he saw Ella the day she went missing? He lives in White Oak. Do you remember anything else about him? Apparently he’s in hospital, but I’ll find out when he comes out.”
Beverly taps her lip thoughtfully. “Stan . . . Yes, he used to love making things for the kids — wooden toys, mainly, and then he used to fix the swings and slides at the playground just because he said he liked seeing them play. Nice man. He worked in all sorts of places but mainly Kennedy’s sheep farm up on the Downs.”
“Did he work for John Stocker?”
“I don’t know. He might have done, but I don’t remember so. Why?”
“No reason at the moment, I’m just trying to understand how it was and who was around that Ella might have known or trusted.” There’s a lot of information to play with, and I still feel like I’m groping through a smoke-filled room with my eyes shut, but I’m getting a clearer picture of Beverly’s life.
“Did Laura say anything else? Nothing about Ella?”
Again I force myself to be cautious. This is the only real lead I’ve managed to pick up, after all, and I really don’t want to get the poor woman’s hopes up. “I asked Laura if she thought it was possible that anyone was blackmailed into giving evidence that maybe didn’t exist.”
“And she said?”
I meet her toffee-brown gaze. “She denied it, turned as white as a sheet and slammed the door in my face.”