by Daisy White
“I need to get to her!” she hisses.
“No, Ruby’s right, we need to go with a plan. We should all walk up there, and just greet him normally. We need to see what state he’s in, and if Ella is tied up or anything. I can’t see from here, but she seems to be sitting quite normally in the passenger seat at the moment,” Kenny says softly.
“Oh God, please let her be OK,” Beverly says, clinging to my arm.
“Ready? Right, just walk slowly over to the van. Let’s get a bit closer to the edge of the cliff so we don’t startle him,” Ken orders, and we walk, with him in the middle and me nearest the rocky edge.
It seems to take an age before we are close enough to them, and I swallow, my mouth dry and heart pounding. “Kenny, what if he’s got a gun?”
“Bit late to worry about that now,” he murmurs. “Come on, a bit closer. They can see us, he’s just pretending not to.”
“Maybe not. Remember, Trixie said his sight isn’t good,” I say quickly. I glance to my right, down into the cove with its shimmering waves and black shiny boulders. It isn’t a high cliff, perhaps just a few feet in places. The blue van sits on a grassy knoll, and beyond it I can pick out a stretch of shingle beach, protected by a semi-circle of chalky downland. Clumps of green bushes line the cliff edge, their branches twisted by the wind. In other circumstances it would be a peaceful place.
A yard away from the van we halt, and wait. John Stocker is leaning back against his seat, smoking, his eyes closed. Ella is sitting bolt upright in her seat, staring at us.
Kenny gestures to her to come to us, and she darts a terrified glance at the man beside her, but stays where she is. As we all start to move forward, closer to Ella, the man speaks. His voice husky, deep and painful.
“What do you want?”
Before Ken or I can say anything Beverly snaps, “I’ve come for my daughter. Ella, come here.”
The man laughs, sitting up properly and sending his cigarette spinning out the open window of the van. The laugh is painful, and makes him cough up phlegm, which he spits after his cigarette butt. We are close enough to hear his rasping, heavy breathing, and see his wasted, yellowing face. The flesh has sunk deep into the hollows under his eyes and cheekbones, and dug pits around his collarbone. He grabs a half empty bottle of beer and takes a swig, which calms his coughing fit.
“Beverly Collins. I never thought I’d meet you. You don’t look bad after Holloway. Better than most of those poor bitches, I expect.” This man who has caused so much misery and suffering can now hardly speak or breathe. He must have been a tall, wide-shouldered brute, but whatever illness he is suffering from is stripping that flesh away. His blue shirt hangs off his bony frame.
“I’ve come for my daughter,” Beverly repeats, as Ella makes no move.
The man jerks his head to look directly at us. His cloud of filthy grey hair sticks out against the dark blue of the evening sky and amongst the shadows, his face is a grotesque parody of death. “I told her the truth,” — he jabs a finger at Ella, who flinches away — “I told her it wasn’t my idea. I didn’t want to take her, but Susie did. It was all she could think about after she lost the last baby. Then . . .” He takes a shuddering breath, coughing and gasping, before he can continue, “And then she saw the newspaper, with the picture of Beverly and Ella, and the caption telling everyone where they lived. Susie saw that she had a little girl. That cut her up. They had been living in the same town, and now she had a beautiful little girl.”
“Mr Stocker, let Ella go. She needs her mother . . .” I say just as Beverly cuts in.
“But why me? Why was Susie so interested in me?” Beverly’s voice is raw with emotion. “Why ruin my life and take my child, when she could have had anyone?”
The man splutters with laughter and gives Ella a playful shove. He takes another swig from the bottle, before belching loudly. “Anyone. I like that. Yes, with me she could have asked for anyone’s kid, but it had to be yours. It had to be yours, Beverly, because she wanted to keep it in the family. Susie was your sister.”
“What?” Beverly leans heavily on my shoulder and I steady her. Her face is pale, and she stares fixedly at the man.
“After Susie lost all those babies, one of the doctors suggested it might be a hereditary problem — you know, passed down from her family. That was when she started to look into her family and found they weren’t hers at all!” He pauses for another coughing fit. “She found out her mother was a loony who had given her away. That didn’t please my Susie, of course. Then she found out about you. You didn’t get given away as a helpless baby, did you, love?”
“It’s called adoption, and I don’t think her mother had a choice,” I tell him, scarcely able to believe his words. Could he be making this up? I glance at Ken who shakes his own head and gives a half shrug, clearly as bewildered as me.
“My God, my own sister . . . Well, don’t expect me to feel sorry for her!” Beverly says, her voice edged with ice. “You stole my child and had me locked up. And for what? So that Susie could take some sort of twisted revenge on me?”
He sighs heavily, breathing rasping loudly as he considers her question. “Revenge wasn’t really what she wanted. She wanted your child.”
“Then she was crazy. How was it Beverly’s fault that Susie was adopted?” I say.
“She never forgave her mother for giving her up, for letting her end up in a family that sent her off to work in the clubs. I gave her everything, but she was obsessed with what happened to her when she was younger. I told her it happens to a lot of girls, and to deal with it. It didn’t spoil her looks, but hell, she had a temper on her. I liked that . . .”
I can feel Kenny edging past me as he speaks, but I put out a warning hand, touching the sleeve of his jacket. He pauses, but under my fingers, I can feel his muscles are taut and his breathing is fast.
The man is speaking again, struggling over the words, slurring and coughing so much that I wonder if he’s going to die right here in front of us. “She couldn’t help it . . . it wasn’t her fault. You were lucky you were born later or it would have been you in the workhouse, and you given away as just a baby. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?”
“Depends on the person,” I tell him.
He gives a snuffle of laughter, which grows louder until it turns into that hacking cough. “They married her off to me when she was sixteen and you might not think it, but that was a blessing for her. The Mathews brothers would have sent her out on the streets up in London, and they’d already put her in one of their clubs. If I hadn’t shown an interest, God knows what would have happened to her. She was a pretty girl, and would have made a bit of money for them. Lucky they all worked for me. But then almost everyone did in those days . . .”
“And that was such a good thing, wasn’t it? Because you could control everyone, and make them join in with your sick little games,” Beverly snaps at him, taking a step forward to poke him in the chest. “You and your crazy wife ruined my life! I always wondered if it was something to do with Barry, or my uncle, but I never imagined it would be my own half-sister.”
He shrugs. “I liked young girls, Susie knows that.”
“You sick, twisted old bastard! Do you think that Ella, Trixie, Laura, or any of those children you took back to your house will ever forget what you did to them? And I know there were others who never made it out of your grand old house alive. You’re a monster and death is too good for you,” Beverly’s voice has risen.
“I had a good life and I loved my wife. Nobody will ever forget who I am.” Pride rings in his voice, and I get a sick feeling in my stomach.
“You aren’t important anymore,” Kenny spits out. “Whatever version of events you might have conjured up in that sick and twisted mind, it is plain to everyone else that you and your wife have been abusing children for years. Taking Ella from her mother and then framing Beverly for murder was an evil thing to do. You tried to ruin two more lives.”
B
everly moves back a step and I relax slightly. Her hair is fanning out in the wind, and her shoulders are squared. “You haven’t ruined my life, though. Or Ella’s. We’ll get through this and do whatever we want, go anywhere . . . I'm the one that has friends and owns property now, John Stocker.”
“Mr Stocker, Ella needs to come home now,” I say. “Susie is dead, and you’re dying. Who will look after her then?”
“You’re that nosy hairdressing bitch, aren’t you?” He leans half out of the window, pointing a finger at me. “I heard about you, poking around with that reporter. Emily can go with you, and see if I care! But first I need you to know something else. That copper, Appleton — he’s been mine for years, the sly bastard. I gave him a lot I wouldn’t give the others, just because I knew he understood the rules. Then . . .” — another coughing fit — “then, when there was nobody else left, and Susie didn’t have long, I thought to myself, who can I turn to who has a few bob? I couldn’t lose the house, you see. Well, that bastard knew I had a lot on him, but I wasn’t going to use it at first. Then he turned nasty and threw everything back in my face. After all I’d done for him, he tried to take my house from under me!”
“Appleton was blackmailing you?” I say, although of course we have already guessed.
“You don’t listen, do you? He was and is. Now you know, and you can have Emily, but be careful, be very careful because that man wants to kill her. But Susie won’t let him. My beautiful Susie. She’s in the sea, you know!” Maudlin, he picks up the bottle and drains it. “You can take Emily away now. Everyone is leaving.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Beverly doesn’t need telling twice and she marches around to the passenger side of the van with Kenny and I following.
Stocker is still talking. “Feisty, you lot are! Just like Susie and just like Emily. There wasn’t anyone I couldn’t pay off, or send the boys in to do some damage to. People are scared of me . . . Not Susie, though, I wouldn’t want you to think that. She loves me.” He watches us as we reach the passenger door, and I yank it open while Beverly reaches a hand out to Ella. The girl looks doubtfully at Stocker but he waves her away. “Just go, girl!”
In that split second, as Ella’s fingers touch Beverly’s, I think it’s going to be OK. I almost think I’m imagining the sharp crack of a gunshot, but beside me Kenny drops to the ground, dark red blossoming across his right shoulder. As he goes down Beverly and I crouch instinctively, arms shielding our heads in a futile attempt to ward off the next shot. Stocker yells defiantly at the tall, blonde figure running downhill towards us.
Even as I lean down, heart pounding, to help Kenny — who is groaning in agony — and Beverly reaches back to her daughter, Stocker starts the engine. The van judders into life with a roar. Kenny rolls away into a clump of bushes, clutching his shoulder. I grab at the van door, which swings wide again, but my sweaty, shaking fingers lose grip, and I roll under the wheels.
Appleton shoots again, and the bullet ricochets off the rusty van with a sharp ping. I hear more shouts from further up the hill, towards the ruined farmhouse, and Beverly is screaming at Ella to move. She wriggles up into the passenger seat with her daughter, reaching a hand down to drag me up too, using the door as a shield. I yank hard to shut the van door behind me.
As Appleton reaches us, he aims the gun straight at Stocker, and I glimpse his glassy blue eyes and sweaty, dripping face. We cower down into the footwell of the van. There is no way he can miss, but Stocker stamps his foot hard on the accelerator just as the policeman fires, and the van moves forward, covering the short distance between the grassy knoll and the edge of the cliff like a rocket. But just when we should be careering over the cliff edge, the wheels catch on something. Ella is screaming, and Beverly is yelling at Stocker, but Appleton jumps at the van, clinging to the door frame, his breath hot on my face, his hand shaking as he points the gun. The barrel grazes my cheek, slips on the sweat, moves away, and I push Ella further, harder down under the seats. For a second the van hangs, suspended, back wheels spinning in the grass, before it starts to tip, falling headfirst into the little cove.
The jolt is bone-shakingly painful, and I scream with the others, but luckily the drop is no more than the height of an average house. The van falls nose first, somersaults onto its roof and comes to rest upside down.
Slowly, I open my eyes. The screams have stopped, and there is water flooding the cab of the van one moment and then receding as the waves retreat. It laps against my cheek. I blink hard, but the water is red, swirling and dancing as though someone had dropped scarlet ink into the sea.
Stocker is dead, flung from the driver’s seat, his body twisted at an impossible angle and his head hanging loose. He must have been jammed against the steering wheel, until the force of the fall threw him clear, with devastating consequences. The scarlet ribbons swirl around him, twisting and entangling us all. Ella is moving next to me, dazed but alive. Beverly is groaning somewhere near my feet, clutching her shoulder but managing to raise her head.
I’m so tired, so completely exhausted I might never move again. But as another wash of salty water makes my eyes sting, I force my body to move. My wrist shoots daggers of pain as I try to wriggle out of my awkward position under the dashboard. Somewhere behind us, I am dimly aware of shouting, before the water erupts beside me and strong hands pull me down into the water, then out of the van and further into the waves. I try to push away, catching my legs on the jagged glass of the windscreen as I squirm desperately like a fish on a line.
I am plunged underwater, held by those heavy hands on my shoulders, and I can’t breathe. My breath is giving out, and the red isn’t in the water anymore, it’s behind my eyes. Frantic now, I lash out with all my limbs, feeling the pressure build in my head, hearing my heart pounding as it desperately tries to cope with the lack of oxygen. I’d forgotten about DS Appleton, clinging grimly to the van door, joining us on our flight off into the cove, and forgotten that for him, it's better if we all die. He may have nothing to lose, but it isn’t the first time I have faced death.
I carry on fighting, kicking backwards at him, feeling my heels connect with solid flesh. But without breath I can’t carry on, and my struggles are getting weaker, consciousness fading to black. Suddenly the pressure on my shoulders is released. I flail weakly, scraping my knees and elbows on shingle, forcing my exhausted body to survive. Breaking the surface I crawl up the shingle and collapse on the beach on my back, gasping, head spinning. I force myself to focus — on the overturned van, on the blood in the waves, and on the girl standing waist deep next to a line of boulders, one large, sharp stone cradled in her hands. To her side the body of a big blonde man ebbs and flows with the tide.
“Ella?” I whisper, “Beverly?” But I’m not sure any words actually come out. Then I remember Kenny, and cast a desperate look up towards the cliff, before laying back in relief. Police officers are peering down at our tragic little scene, and amongst them, I recognise the slate grey stare of Inspector Hammond.
At my feet, the waves churn and beat, and the slick of sea on the horizon is washed gold and red by the setting sun. I’m dimly aware of Beverly inching her way up the beach, away from the wreckage of the van, of Ella wading back and sitting between us, silent and shaking, and of policemen bringing blankets and other men bringing bandages. I hear myself asking about Kenny, twisting my aching body to see him carried away on a stretcher, but I feel no pain of my own anymore, just a huge rush of relief that the evil is gone.
Eventually the sun dips into the sea, and the moonlight dances in over the waves, turning the scarlet ribbons to silver. Sometimes blood isn’t thicker than water, whatever people might say.
THE END
BOOK 3: BEFORE I TRUST YOU
A gripping mystery full of killer twists
DAISY WHITE
First published 2018
Joffe Books, London
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, pl
aces and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
The author asserts their moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
©Daisy White
Please join our mailing list for free kindle crime thriller, detective, mystery, and romance books and new releases.
www.joffebooks.com
THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
To the Crazies for their amazing support, endless supply of drinks and general literary naughtiness . . . x
Chapter One
“You’ll be dead by midnight.”
Horrified, I snatch my hand away. Her dark eyes hold mine, and her long nails tap the edge of the table. Between us, on a cloth of blue velvet, the crystal ball shimmers.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs, her long gold earrings dancing in the lamplight, “What I say. There is a way to prevent it, though. For an extra donation to Fate’s little pot here, I can tell you what to do.” She shakes the wooden box, and I hear the coins rattle.
Serves me right for even thinking of going into a fortune teller’s tent, paying good money only to be told I’m about to die. What a waste of a tanner. I study her leathery face, whose thick eye make-up has leaked into the folds of her skin. I’m sure I catch a flicker of amusement in those eyes. Her red satin dress is torn at the bodice and the white lacing across her sagging bosom is grubby. She gives the laces a yank, and hoists her dress up. She sighs.