by Daisy White
The magical couple are frozen, expressions of horror flitting from one face to another as we all watch, fascinated.
Hector visibly hauls himself together, squaring his shoulders. “I’m afraid we only do interviews about our current occupation. We very briefly had an ice cream van in the early fifties, but moved away and joined a group of touring players in 1953, wasn’t it, Eva?”
She nods quickly, but when she speaks the accent has slipped, and she sounds uncannily like Brighton-born Catherine from the salon. “Yes, we went first to London, and then all over Spain and France. It was very exciting, and of course we developed our act over the years. Alice, wasn’t it? Nice to meet you. We’ll be in touch, or do just pop into the theatre. We’re here until the end of September.”
They nod at us all and step away into another group of well-wishers.
“Is it just me or was that very odd?” James lights another cigarette, and his turquoise eyes narrow in the smoke. “Normally people only get like that when you ask them something very personal. Wonder what they’ve got to hide?”
“Well, I can understand it, I suppose. If you are a fairly well-known magician you don’t want people dragging up the fact you used to drive an ice cream van for a living,” Johnnie says reasonably.
I’m staring unseeing at a group of dancers who have invaded the room and are singing along to an Ella Fitzgerald number. Instead of the sweaty, noisy teenagers, I see the photograph of Ella and her friends, this time with an ice cream van in the background. I can hear Annie saying “Well, I remember the ice cream van was there because Martha said they all had a cone. Such a sweet couple who used to run it. The children loved them . . .”
Even though I’m standing in a noisy, smoky room with crowds jostling my elbows, all I can see now is Ella and her friends playing in the sunshine on the road outside her house. I watch the ice cream van pulling up outside. The van that everyone knows, run by the people everyone trusts. It parks up next to the trees and the children laugh and queue impatiently for their treat.
Beverly said, “She loved ice cream. They used to do a special one for her if she waited until last — ice cream with a biscuit crumbled on top.”
As I watch, the children are running back to play now, carrying their dripping cones. The sun shines down, and nobody really notices that Ella and the ice cream van have both gone. So that was how Ella vanished so easily. There is no other explanation. It fits. But where did they take her? And why didn’t the police find this out?
“Hey, Ruby, are you alright?” Victoria has her arm around my shoulders, shaking me gently. “Rubes?”
With an effort I focus on her face. Her blue eyes are concerned. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just a bit hot in here. The show was great but I should really be getting back to Mary.” I won’t tell anyone until I’ve spoken to the police, or maybe I should talk it over with Kenny . . .
“Well, if you’re sure. You look a bit pale . . .” Victoria frowns, biting her lip as she studies my face. “I assume Mary is feeling a bit better? Sorry, Pearl did mention she was struggling a bit — I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, of course not. She seems much happier. I am really sorry, I would have called Pearl to tell her, but I didn’t know when she was working . . .”
“It’s fine, Rubes, I think she was just hoping not to get a panicked telephone call saying Mary was worse, that’s all. It’s good she’s feeling better. I suppose some women just take longer than others to adjust and it is a very emotional time. Not to mention the lack of sleep! You can call us any time, you know that. We won’t be out for a couple of weeks as the exams start, but after the sixteenth we’ll be back in town.”
“Thanks, Victoria, and good luck with the exams! Can you say goodbye to the others for me, please? I’ll just head back now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk with you?”
“Don’t be mad, Vic, it’s only two streets away, and then you’d have to walk back on your own. I’m honestly fine. Thanks for a great night.” I kiss her and catch James' eye long enough to wave on my way out. He’s standing close to Alice and she seems to be showing him her notebook. Or is she showing off her impressive cleavage? I'm so glad James and I are just friends.
The walk back to Ship Street in the warm night air clears my head. Will doesn’t appear from the darkness, and I have my thoughts to myself. That blinding moment of clarity has left me a bit shaken, and I know I’m right. It fits too well.
Perhaps, as kids do, Ella thought it was all a big adventure. The van made it simple to transport the child to her final destination. My brain skitters away from that one. For some reason I can’t see the magical pair as the shadowy figures behind Ella’s kidnapping and Beverly’s set-up. They are too scared, too normal — but then again it wouldn’t have been hard to conceal a child on the road.
They are back, though, and Beverly is back. This thought pierces my tired brain, and sets my heart thundering in my chest. Another coincidence?
With slight trepidation I let myself into our bedsit and creep up the stairs. Summer is fast asleep but Mary is sitting up in bed, hugging her knees. She turns a tear-stained face towards me and I sit down on the bed.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s OK, it isn’t Summer. I just . . . I cut my arm on the tin of peas, and there was blood everywhere. I couldn’t stop crying. I don’t know why because it doesn’t hurt that much . . .” She trails off, and the blankness is sealing across her face again.
Desperate not to lose her, I pull her into a hug, rubbing her cold arms. “It’s OK, I’m back now. And Summer went to sleep after her feed alright? Can I see your arm?”
Like a child she nods wordlessly and holds out her right forearm. It’s a deep cut, perhaps two inches long, and still oozing sluggish dark blood. The moonlight flooding across our bedsit makes it almost bright enough to see clearly.
“I think it needs a bandage,” I tell her, “to stop the bleeding, but also because you’ll get blood all over your clean sheets if you go to sleep with it like that.”
“I couldn’t find a bandage . . .” Mary sniffs, as she pushes back her hair, “It was only this arm. I tried to save the tin from going on the floor, but it made such a mess. It took ages to clear up.”
“Mary, it’s fine. It was just an accident, and it really doesn’t matter.” I can’t understand why she's so upset, but at least she's still talking to me, and hasn’t retreated into that blank-faced stranger. I give her another hug, tuck her into bed like a child, and rummage under my bed for an old shirt. Two sharp twists and I have a couple of rough bandages.
“Here, I’ll put this on, and if we need to we can always go and see Pearl tomorrow and get her to look at it. She’s on night shift so she’ll be done by nine. Oh, and they have exams so they sent their love but they won’t be out until after the sixteenth, Victoria said. Don’t cry, Mary, you’re doing fine, and look how well Summer is sleeping. Do you want a cup of hot milk or something?”
“No thanks.”
Finally, Mary drifts off to sleep, and I undress quietly and fall into my own bed. What on earth was all that about?
* * *
Friday is always busy at the salon, and all the chat is still about Susie Stocker and the poor men who drowned on Sunday. Lots of our clients have relations in the fishing trade so there is a bit of discussion about ‘idiots from London with no respect for sea’ but regarding Susie the general consensus seems to be she knew she was going to die soon and decided on sooner rather than later. It seems to be fairly well known that John Stocker has also been unwell for a couple of years, so it won’t be long before he joins his wife in the graveyard on the hill. Catherine insists that ‘all that champagne and high living catches up with you’, but I reckon old age does much the same thing.
Anyway, the Stockers definitely didn’t have any children, so Beach Girl remains unclaimed. I came down to the salon early so I had time to do a bit of telephoning, which I thought would yield some results f
or the Collins case, but I’m just left feeling frustrated. WPC Stanton said she had been up and asked the child if she had seen Susie Stocker walk into the sea, but the girl just turned her head away. While I had her on the telephone I also put forward my theory about Hector and Eva, and she said she’d pass it on to Inspector Hammond, because she didn’t have details of the original case.
When I tried to ask what happened to the other girl from the kidnapping incident, she clammed right up and said she had to go.
Mary insisted she was fine this morning, and although she is very pale, her arm seems to be healing neatly, and the bleeding has stopped. She took Summer off to Angela’s for the day and returned to work with a clean bandage under her uniform. “Look, I don’t need to go to hospital or anything. It doesn’t need stitches.”
“Maybe you should still go up there and just get it checked. Get the bus on your lunch break. Johnnie won’t mind if you’re late back and I can cover your clients.”
She shakes her head, mouth set in a stubborn line. “I’m alright now.”
Mrs Carpenter is minding the reception desk today, studying us all with shrewd, dark eyes. Although her face is a mass of wrinkles and her eyes are half hooded by the papery, slack skin, she is one of the smartest women I have met in Brighton.
I make her a cup of tea at eleven and take it over to the reception desk.
“Thank you, Ruby.” She makes a careful pencil mark in the appointment book and then looks at me enquiringly. “How’s the Beverly Collins investigation going?”
The general buzz of chatter covers our conversation, but even so I glance around before I answer. Johnnie, as usual, hasn’t missed anything, but he winks at me and turns back to his red-headed client. Still annoyed with the police, I lean an elbow on the desk next to the telephone. “Do you remember a couple who ran an ice cream van in Brighton in the '50s?”
Mrs Carpenter's dark eyes narrow further, and her lips purse as she thinks. “Mavis and Jack Harper. They went off and started a magic show, didn’t they? I saw in the paper that they were back at the Hippodrome. Why do you ask?”
I take a deep breath, and say slowly and softly, “Because I think they might have been the ones who took Ella Collins.”
Mrs Carpenter watches my face for a while, clearly processing the information. “Were they on White Oak when she went missing?”
“Yes. As far as I can make out they were the last adults to see her, so they must have been questioned by the police.”
“Have you tried to talk to them?”
I explain about the interview last night, and their reaction to Alice’s questions.
“I see. Well, if I were you, I would . . .” The telephone rings, making us both jump, and the next moment I have forgotten all about Hector and Eva.
“Ruby! It’s Beverly. The police want me to come down to the station and answer some questions. They said I’m not under arrest or anything, but I can’t go without you and Annie. I just can’t go and sit in there again, knowing that last time I didn’t come out again.”
Beverly's words are pouring out, edged with fear, and it’s a while before I can make myself heard. “Of course I’ll go with you, but I can’t until after work. What about your aunt?”
“She’s in Eastbourne for the day at a WI event. She’s not back until about eight tonight. What do you think they want, Ruby? I haven’t done anything wrong! They can’t arrest me for looking for my daughter. I won’t let them!”
For the second time in twelve hours I find myself saying that it will all be OK even though I’m seriously wondering whether it will be. I arrange to meet Beverly down on the promenade opposite Brenda’s after work, and tell her we’ll get the bus to the police station. She’s going to keep trying to get hold of Annie to come too. Oh God, what am I going to do about Mary after work? I promised I’d go with her to get Summer.
When I come off the telephone, replacing the receiver with a slightly sweaty hand, Mrs Carpenter is waiting. “The police want to see her?”
“Yes. She’s really worried . . . What? Why are you looking like that?”
“Ruby, can you do me to two teas with milk and sugar, please, love?” Catherine leads another client from the dryer to a chair.
“And one black tea over here as well if you’re going out the back,” Johnnie calls, smugly brushing out a sheet of shimmering blonde hair while his client showers him with praises.
Mrs Carpenter nods towards the back room, and we both start making tea and clattering cups. “Are you alright, Ruby?” she says in her rather harsh, grating voice.
“Yes. Beverly’s terrified. They can’t arrest her for looking for her daughter, can they?” I collect mugs and spoons, laying everything neatly onto the tray without thinking.
“Ruby, I know you girls haven’t had much sleep lately, but think about it. Last weekend a girl appeared on the beach. Never mind all that kidnapping business. A girl of, say, fourteen appeared on the beach and now the police can’t find her parents or anyone who knows her.”
I can’t even begin to say it, or think it for that matter, but my hands are shaking and I spill milk all over the countertop.
She snorts. “You’re not that daft. Has it really not occurred to you? It’s obvious to me that the police think this girl is Ella Collins. That's why Beverly has been asked to go in. To identify her daughter.”
Chapter Nineteen
“But that would be—” I stop, concentrating hard on pouring boiling water, “How is that even possible? And why now?”
Mrs Carpenter nods and says tartly, “You’re the one with the investigation bureau — you tell me. Not saying for definite I’m right, but I usually am.”
With the lack of sleep and the strangeness of this investigation it’s a miracle I manage to cut anyone’s hair in a straight line, but I do. I smile and chat and sweep up mountains of hair and dust. I make Mary tea and toast and sit with her on our lunch break, explaining about Beverly. Her eyes are desperate and her mouth goes weak when I tell her I need to go down to the police station.
“I know I promised I’d come and get Summer with you, but I’ve got an idea . . . Do you mind if I ring Kenny?”
Mary shrugs, but I can see that flicker of desperation — even fear — cross her face at the prospect of being alone.
Kenny, delighted at the possibility of another potential story, is happy to come and sit with Mary and the baby while I accompany Beverly to the police station. He doesn’t ask why Mary suddenly needs an extra pair of hands, and even says he’ll bring dinner, as long as she is happy with chicken and chips with a couple of bottles of Coca Cola.
“Thanks, Kenny, you're the best!” I tell him. “Oh, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about as well, so if you’ve got a bit of time when I get back . . .”
“Sounds intriguing, and yes, for you, Rubes, I’ve got all night.”
“Thanks, Kenny.”
“I know, I know, and because I'm so wonderful, one day you’ll realise we should go on a date,” he tells me, laughing.
“See you later.” I ring off, dive over to the basins for two shampooing sessions, and then grab the telephone again — but nobody answers at the nurses’ accommodation. I’ll have to tell Pearl and Victoria my new theories later. I don’t mention Mrs Carpenter’s idea to anyone, but God, it would be so perfect if it was true. I bet Beverly, when she’s had time to get over her panic that she’s going to be arrested, has thought of it too.
* * *
I jump off the bus and run into the police station with two minutes to spare. The heavy blue wooden doors spit me straight out into the grubby grey waiting area. Beverly is huddled on a chair with Annie beside her, and the desk sergeant is preoccupied with shouting at some drunks.
“Oh Ruby, thank you for coming!” Beverly leaps up and takes both my hands. “They still haven’t told us what this is all about . . .” But there is a desperate flare of hope in her eyes, and I know she has guessed.
Annie — vast, rouged an
d defiant — gives me a hug as WPC Stanton appears from a side door, “Miss Collins? Can you come this way, please — oh.” She flicks a quick glance at Annie and me, standing like soldiers on sentry duty either side of Beverly.
“I need them with me,” Beverly tells her. “Whatever you have to say, I need them with me.”
The WPC hesitates, but allows us all to file through into a small room with grey walls, and another grubby yellow lino floor. “Just have a seat and wait here. The inspector will be with you soon.”
She shuts the door behind her softly, and we wait, listening to the sharp tap-tap of her heels as she marches down the corridor. Beverly sits down heavily onto one of the chairs, twisting her fingers and picking at her thumbnail. The edges of her nails are already red and raw. Her eyes are pink from crying, and she shivers in the stuffy warmth of the room.
I breathe in the smell of sweat, urine and disinfectant and wish the windows didn’t have rusty bars on them to prevent fresh air from getting in. Perching on the edge of the table I try to push down a rising wave of panic. Mainly panic that I may have done something to get Beverly into trouble.
Inspector Hammond enters the room with another policeman, and we all jump guiltily. Beverly is so pale now, I’m worried she might faint, so I jump off the table and stand next to her. Annie sits on the other chair, picking up her friend’s hand and rubbing it with both of hers as you would to warm a child.
Both policemen are polite and I’d say Hammond is nervous. His usual jolly, slightly shambolic manner intensifies as he drops his notebook then picks it off the floor, revealing damp patches across his shoulders and under the arms of his navy shirt.
“Thank you for coming in, Miss Collins,” he says formally, “I’m sure you remember Detective Sergeant Appleton. He was heavily involved in your case, and of course with recent developments I felt it was important for him to be present.” His muscular blonde companion smiles at us.