Detective Ruby Baker series Box Set

by Daisy White

  “I’d offer them to Ken and James first of course, but if I can make some money, why not?” Victoria gives him a puzzled look.

  Mary’s chin is set in that stubborn way she has, her pale blue eyes narrowing against the sun. “Because that poor girl is probably dead. It seems a bit horrible to make money out of it.”

  “I don’t see why,” I say thoughtfully. “The boys will be paid for writing what will probably be front page news. It’s not like either them or Victoria made the girl jump, they’re just showing what happened. Anyway, if Vic’s photographs do show anything important, we’ll have to take them to the police before we do anything else.”

  We turn into the alley, following the shortcut that links Ship Street to Church Street. Mary sniffs. “It still feels wrong.” She shifts Summer to her other hip and leads the way downhill, her sandals tapping purposefully on the dusty pavement.

  Brenda’s Café is down near the seafront, close to Johnnie’s, the hairdressing salon where Mary and I work. Thanks to Johnnie’s generosity, we have our own flat above the salon.

  In the late afternoon, with the lunchtime rush over and all the day trippers still out on the beach, the café is half empty. As usual the juke box seems to be stuck on Sonny and Cher. Brenda says it’s too much bother to get it fixed, and anyway she now knows all the words to ‘I Got You Babe’. We grab our usual table, and slump down in the cool gloom with relief. My dress is sticking to my back and sweat has wiped away most of my race day make-up.

  Brenda marches straight over to us, wiping her hands on her stained apron. “I heard what happened, and I thought of you all up there! Such a shame when you were all off on a nice day out . . . Did you actually see that poor girl?” She reaches straight for Summer and plants a smacker of a kiss on the baby’s forehead. “How’s my little cherub today?”

  We’ve long ago accepted the fact that certain people in Brighton get news as it happens, sometimes even before it happens. Brenda is one of those people. Hands on her vast hips, lips pursed, she stands, waiting for us to speak.

  “It was terrible,” Mary says soberly. “We don’t know for sure, but it looked like she was dead. And a jockey was hurt, and some horses fell . . . The crowd went out onto the course, and the ambulance was waiting . . .” She trails off, biting her lip.

  I kick off my shoes under the table, and rest my hot, blistered feet on the cold lino floor. My mind is replaying the tragedy, seeing the girl’s pink dress billow out like a flag as she leapt onto the course. I could still feel the claustrophobic press of many bodies, the heat and the rancid smell of fear and excitement. Could it have been an accident?

  Victoria takes charge of the orders. “Can we get four chicken and chips to share, please, and a pot of tea? Kenny and James might come by later, but I’m not banking on it. Oh, and a cup of milk for Summer, if that’s alright?”

  “Of course it is, darling. Coming right up.” Brenda returns Summer to her mother and bustles off, chuntering to herself about the horrors of the day.

  We wait in the café for over an hour, but neither James, nor Kenny turns up, and as Summer’s getting restless, I suggest we go home. “I expect Ken is helping James, and you know what those two are like when they’ve got a good story.”

  Brenda, seizing a moment of quiet, is chatting to a group of Rockers outside the café. Leather jackets flung over their shoulders, the boys are leaning on a collection of motorbikes, smoking.

  Seeing us leaving, Brenda wanders over, wiping her hands on her stained apron. “That’s my eldest with his new bike,” she says, nodding towards the boys. “I was just telling them to stay out of trouble. There’ve been too many fights recently, and he’d best keep his nose clean or I’ll have that bike off him.”

  I grin at the boys, who are clearly pretending they can’t hear what Brenda is saying. One of them winks and nudges his friend. Brenda’s right though, there have been a lot of fights recently, between the Mods and Rockers. The Rockers have a bad reputation, but they’ve never given us any trouble. Kenny did a piece for the paper after a massive punch-up on the beach last month, and even the nationals got hold of the photographs of deck chairs being hurled and groups of tense-looking boys. James reckons it wasn’t the Brighton boys. He says it was the London trippers who come down here and make trouble, and he also let slip that a few of the photographs were staged to give the impression of a bigger fight than there actually was.

  We walk back up the hill towards the hairdressing salon, and I wave at Florrie, who works in the ice-cream shop opposite. She’s snatching a minute in the sun with a cigarette, and she blows me a kiss. Florrie’s dad is Italian and the family have owned the shop for years. He’s lovely, gives us free Coca Cola floats if the shop is quiet. He’ll go mad if he sees her smoking though.

  We stop outside the salon. “I’ll let you know when the photographs have developed,” Victoria says. “Or if I’ve got enough, I might be able to bring them down on the beach tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Get you, with your own photograph developing studio,” Pearl says, smiling fondly at her. “Most people just get their photos done at the camera shop, but you’ve got to do the whole thing on your own.”

  Victoria rolls her eyes. “I’m only down there because you said not to do it in the sink. And it’s not a studio, is it? It’s one of the old gardeners’ sheds next to the dustbins. All I’ve got is some buckets and a rusty tap for my running water.”

  Victoria and Pearl are roommates at the hospital, and I can quite see, in their tiny shared accommodation, why Pearl doesn’t want chemicals, or whatever you use to develop photographs, in the sink.

  “I’ve got to go too, or I’ll be late for my shift,” Ted says, giving Mary a peck on the cheek and Summer a kiss on her little forehead. “Be good, girls!” He winks at her, and she smiles back.

  Mary and I stand in brilliant sunshine, waving them off. “I feel really strange. You know, all that excitement and it was such a fab day . . . then that poor girl. Why would she do it, Rubes?”

  “I don’t know, but I feel the same. And I feel guilty that we didn’t do anything to help. I mean, I know we couldn’t, but I still feel it just the same.” It isn’t Aunt Jackie’s neighbour I’m thinking of, or even the poor girl today, but my own mother, who came closer to taking her own life than anyone will ever know. I shiver, despite the warmth, and push the unwelcome memories away.

  Our front door is around the side of the salon, next to the dustbins. We walk gratefully into the gloom of our tiny hallway, and take Summer upstairs. The wooden floors are cool on our bare feet, and the little girl settles on her rag rug to play. The sun has moved round, casting our flat into shade, and I throw open the sash window to let in the salty breeze.

  Mary pours two glasses of water and we slump on our beds for a chat, as we so often do. But tonight Mary is edgy, biting her nails the way she does when she’s worried or upset. I’m about to ask if she’s okay, and if she wants to talk over the events of the day again — we both know that repetition can dull memories of violence. You don’t ever forget, of course, but they don’t own you anymore.

  “Actually, Ruby, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, but we never seem to get five minutes without something happening . . .” She plucks at the bed sheet, her blue eyes are wide, and her big mouth droops slightly. “I . . . Summer and I will be moving out next month.”

  Chapter Three

  “What do you mean? Aren’t you happy here anymore?” I swing my legs over the bed and sit up, facing her.

  “No! I mean . . . I mean I am happy . . . Look, I started all wrong. Last week, Ted asked me to marry him.” The nervousness gives way to a glint of excitement, and her dimples show.

  “Oh my God, that’s fab! I can’t believe you never said anything . . . Why didn’t you tell me?” My glow of pleasure at her news is slightly blunted by the fact this is in fact old news. “How did you ever keep a secret like that?”

  Summer crows with laughter, breaking the
awkward silence, and we both glance over. She is absorbed in some game with the rag doll and a box of wooden bricks. Mary smiles a bit stiffly. “I know it sounds stupid, but I was a bit worried you might not be pleased. You know, we’ve lived together ever since we left Croydon, and you’ve done so much for Summer and me.”

  A tiny part of me is indignant that she thought I might be narked, but the overwhelming excitement at two of my closest friends getting married gets me jumping up and hugging Mary. “You complete idiot. Of course I’ll miss you, but I’m so happy for you and Ted. He’s the sweetest boy.”

  She laughs suddenly. “I know! I can’t believe it myself. I never thought I’d marry again, but since the divorce came through, I’ve been thinking, why shouldn’t I have a second chance? Ted is so gentle and kind. I know he’s not everyone’s idea of a hunk, but that’s one of the reasons I love him. And of course he’s sweet with Summer, and he wants more kids at some point.”

  Long after we’ve put the light out, I lie awake reliving the day. The moon shines almost directly in at our window, and although we’ve draped curtains over the window, it lights our room almost as brightly as the sun. If I’m honest, Mary and I have been growing apart for a while now. She’s still my best friend, and I’d do anything to keep her safe, but while I’ve been having nights out with our usual gang, she’s been going off on cosy picnics with Ted and her daughter.

  It was a big adjustment for both of us when Summer was born, but we got through it. Together. Mary put up with the disapproving stares, and the odd cruel bit of gossip that came her way as a single mother. Now Summer is two, and she sleeps through the night, eats solid food, and crawls into your lap for a cuddle. And she and Mary are leaving.

  My mind spins back to the tragedy at the racecourse. Like a film replaying, I can see the girl fall, again and again. Did she scream, or close her eyes? Did she hold her breath as she hurled herself in front of the horses? I think back to Victoria’s comment about the suffragette, Emily Davison, and wonder what it’s like to feel so strongly about a cause that you’d take your own life. Perhaps she didn’t think she’d die. Despite myself, I think back to my mother, her dark blue eyes, so like my own, fixed and blank as she curled her fingers around the knife.

  I turn away from the window, and put my face into my pillow, blocking out our silver-lit room.

  * * *

  ‘BRIGHTON RACECOURSE TRAGEDY’

  The Derby Trial at Brighton Racecourse yesterday ended in disaster as Rita Stonehill (18) threw herself in front of the lead horses, just seconds from the finish line.

  The favourite, Love Me Do, was trailing in fourth place but frontrunner Basil’s Pride took a nasty fall. Miss Stonehill was taken to Brighton Hospital, where she received immediate treatment, but later died of her injuries.

  It is understood that Miss Stonehill was an active member of several women’s rights groups, and was arrested last year at a protest march in Portsmouth. There is some speculation that the incident today was a staged protest that may have gone wrong.’

  Police are urging anyone who saw the incident, and who believes they may have any information that will help inquiries, to contact Brighton Police Station.

  “Blimey!” Eve, one of the senior stylists, snatches the newspaper from me and scans the front page. “It’s just like that suffragette who jumped in front of the King’s horse at the Derby.” She dumps her handful of scissors and combs onto a towel and leans against the reception desk, clearly ready for a gossip.

  “That’s what Victoria said.” I study the photograph for a moment. It’s a formal portrait, and she’s sitting up very straight, her smile rigid and set. But her eyes are laughing, and with her short pale hair and big mouth, she looks a lot like me. She’s much skinnier though.

  “She’s a bright girl, that Victoria. Rita was such a lovely girl too, wasn’t she, Catherine? I remember her brothers going after one of her boyfriends a couple of years ago. They were all still at school, but there was a right punch-up! The whole family’s like that — very protective of their own, and I can’t say I blame ’em.”

  “Her brothers are bit rough,” Catherine says, on her way over to her colleague with a mug of tea. “I think the youngest, Sammy, is alright, but the others are always in trouble with the coppers for fighting.”

  Eve and Catherine were already working for Johnnie when Mary and I arrived, and having broken through their initial distrust, I now think of them as family. They are both round, stocky women with hearts of gold, matching perms, and large, busy families. Even in the heat of summer, they arrive and leave wrapped in thick wool coats, and armed with heavy handbags.

  I hurry back to the sinks and start shampooing vigorously, but the blurred, inky photograph of Rita Stonehill stays with me. I feel a niggling disquiet that I can’t seem to banish. This morning when I looked in the mirror to do my make-up, my eyes were shadowed with purple, and my face was pale and drawn. Defiantly, I chose a bright pink lipstick and pencilled a lot of black around my eyes.

  Two more women join the queue in our little waiting area. They sit drinking tea next to the window, flipping through the newspaper, and I catch Rita’s name passed from lip to lip. The salon is busy for a Monday morning, and the whole of Brighton seems to have popped in for a chat, as they tend to do when something newsworthy happens. Of course, there is only one topic of conversation.

  “Mary, could you do Miss Taget’s nails, please? And, Rubes, angel, when you’ve done with Mrs Pepper, could you come and do a cut for me?” Even dapper Johnnie, the salon owner, is looking slightly harassed. His pink-and-white striped shirt is rolled up to reveal snowy white cuffs that set off tanned arms, and his blond hair flops across his slightly damp forehead.

  I finish up, pass the heavy glass shampoo bottle to Eve for refilling and grab my scissors. That’s another reason Mary and I haven’t seen much of each other recently. We’ve been working as trainee hairdressers ever since we arrived in Brighton, and the last few months we’ve been finishing our City and Guilds training. There’s been a bit of night school, and some work in different salons, which has been hard to fit around babysitting Summer, but we’ve done it now. I never thought I’d end up as a hairdresser. My mum always wanted me to be a teacher.

  I’ve just finished snipping the ends of my client’s feathery cut, when Kenny leaps in through the door. He’s always in a hurry, always off looking for the next big story. As usual, his black hair is rumpled, his shirt hangs out of his trousers, and a notebook dangles from one hand.

  “What happened to you and James yesterday? We tried telephoning your flat, and the news desk,” I say, moving over to the desk and putting a handful of coins into the drawer.

  Kenny leans against the wall between two embossed cherubs, keeping out of the way of the customers. He looks exhausted and he squints against the sun pouring in through the big picture windows. “I had to help James with the story. Front page again.”

  “We saw the story. Do you think she really meant to do it?”

  He nods. “We reckon there’s more to it than her just killing herself, but it was such a quick job, and we had to make the word count, and you know what it’s like trying to get something solid.” Kenny lowers his voice. “She had connections with the local CND group, and it’s been suggested that the owners of Love Me Do are a chemical company who help make weapon components. Not bombs, but still . . .”

  “You need to find out if that’s true before you use it though.” Johnnie glares at me, and I squeeze past Kenny to grab the broom. I’m used to ‘reporter speak,’ as Pearl calls it, and I know they have to be dead careful about what they put in the paper.

  Ken has been one of our gang ever since Mary and I arrived. He’s a blast at parties, and the last one standing at any bar. I’ve always told myself he’s like a brother, but lately I’ve caught myself feeling a bit differently about him. Like today. As I push past him, my body tingles, and I feel a rush of warmth in my cheeks. Perhaps Mary’s love affair is catching
. “So what do you think then?” I ask quickly, before he can see me blush.

  He lights a cigarette. “Meet me at Brenda’s after work and I’ll tell you.”

  “Can’t, I’m working late tonight. There’s a big wedding on Saturday, and we’ve got the bride and her family coming in for a trial run. They’re friends of Johnnie’s so they get special treatment. I’ll be done by half seven though. Are you going out afterwards?”

  “Yes. We’ll head down to the Black Jug outside Patcham, with Pearl’s horsey crowd. Victoria’s working, but James is coming with his new chick. Do come, Rubes, it’ll be fun.”

  “Ruby! I need you to take over here while I start Mrs Sherrin. We’ve been double-booked!”

  Johnnie’s on the warpath, and I really hope I’m not responsible for the double-booking. Shouting that he’ll pick me up at eight, Kenny slams out of the door, scaring two elderly customers who are just coming in.

  Two hours later, I manage to grab a quick drink and some toast for a late lunch before dashing back into the salon and taking up my scissors and combs. We’re kept so busy that I’m quite shocked to look at the pink clock on the wall and see that it’s already half past five.

  The bridal party arrives promptly just as we shut the salon to regular customers. Luckily, they are all quite charming, loving the styles Johnnie suggests and tipping us all a few shillings. The bride-to-be looks a lot like Jean Shrimpton, with those sharp cheekbones and huge dark eyes. She tells me that she has actually done some modelling herself, but her fiancé works in banking, so when they get married she’ll give up work and have babies. Her mother, who looks exactly like an older version of her, nods approvingly.

  “Thanks, my angels. I’ve got to run now, but have fun with those jockeys, Rubes, and I want all the gossip tomorrow.” Johnnie, blond hair now falling rakishly across one eye, is buttoning an immaculate, green tweed jacket. “I’m sorry I missed the race and all the excitement. Perhaps I’ll come and have a flutter next time. My aunt has a few fillies in training up near Lambourne . . .” He frowns into the mirror, fiddling with his cufflinks.