by Daisy White
The roads are dusty, the bus crowded, and I arrive at Bev’s address hot and sticky, hoping I haven’t wasted my time. The houses along Colbourne Avenue are fairly large and well built, but number fifteen shows signs of neglect. The paint is covered in grime, and the windows, decorated with limp net curtains, are filthy. I can’t see a bell outside so I thump on the door. Music is blaring out of an open window on the top floor, so somebody must be home. There is no answer, so I try again. Moving out of the hot sun, I stand under a parched apple tree, watched by two beady-eyed seagulls.
“Hallo?” I try shouting up at the window. The next bus goes in half an hour, which gives me plenty of time to walk down to the bus stop, but I really don’t want to give up yet.
A face appears at the window, framed by a tangle of brown curls.
“I’m looking for Bev?”
“You’ve found her. I’ll come down.”
The music is turned down a notch and I go back to the peeling front door. The girl who opens it is tall and angular, with a waterfall of brown curls. She has very dark eyes, and a wide smile showing uneven teeth.
“So what do you want? If you’re a reporter, don’t bother, because I’ve got nothing to say about Rita or the horse.”
“I’m Ruby. I work at Johnnie’s. Sammy and Joanna asked me to look into Rita’s death, and they gave me your address. Can we have a quick chat?”
She stares at me for a long moment without smiling, and I wonder if she’ll shut to door in my face. But then she does smile, and steps aside to let me in. I follow her long legs in their patchwork jeans into a dirty living room. A grubby orange sofa with stained cushions and a cheesecloth throw sits next to a coffee table propped up with a milk crate. The flowered curtains are dusty, and a large mirror standing at the far end of the room is spotted in brown. It also has a lipstick kiss in one corner, and strings of glittering bead necklaces slung across the top.
“Sorry. It’s a bit of a mess, but my housemates are pigs, and I don’t have time to keep tidying up after them. Bummer that racehorse being stolen, isn’t it? I was going to have a bet on him for the Derby, but I suppose I’ll go with Love Me Do now. Do you want a drink or anything?” She seems remarkably cheery considering her best friend has just died.
“No thanks.” Above the faded, fraying jeans, Bev is wearing what looks like a man’s pinstripe shirt, and her wrists are covered in bracelets that jangle as she moves. I remember the jeans with bells on and smile to myself.
“Joanna told me what Sammy was doing. Look, I can see their point but I think they’re a bit far out on this one. All this stuff about Rita being murdered is ridiculous. I was her best friend, and I could see how close she was to the edge . . .” Her mouth clamps shut suddenly, and her eyes are bright. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I understand that it’s hard for you to talk about it, but Sammy has asked me to look into Rita’s death, that’s all.” I smile at her, trying to put her at her ease. “If anything, I would have to agree with you at this point. There is nothing to suggest that Rita was murdered.”
Her eyes are very dark brown, and when I look closer I can see they are red-rimmed from crying. Her skin is sallow. She stares at me hard, assessing me. “Fine.”
“Anything you say to me won’t go any further, unless, and I said this to Sammy, unless I find out anything that does point to a crime having been committed.”
Bev controls herself with what looks like an almighty effort, taking a deep breath, and fiddling with her bracelets. “Alright, I’ll go with it. I bet Sammy didn’t tell you the half of what really happened in that family. All this in the papers about Rita having love affairs, and making it out like her death was some tragic result of her having different men on the go, is rubbish. I’ve already told the police this, but I’ll tell you as well.” Bev brushes her long hair back from her face with an impatient hand. “Her dad used to hit her. Not just the odd wallop across the legs like they do when you’re a kid, either. He hit her properly. When she tried to run away, he would tell her he’d kill her brother Sammy, unless she got in line and found a husband.” Her face really crumples now, and she wipes away a few tears, streaking make-up down her cheeks. “Sorry.”
A chill creeps up my spine, and my hands tingle. This is all too familiar. It’s been a long time now, and the memories have faded, but the scars are still there. Suddenly cold, I rub my arms, and stop myself from going back. It’s over and done with, and I’m happy and free. But Rita is dead. For the first time in the investigation, I begin to wonder if Sammy is right, and Rita was murdered. By her own dad.
“Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Bev leans closer, touching my arm, and I catch a hint of some floral perfume. Close to, I can see that for all her bounce and confidence she is suffering.
“I’m fine. Go on. I take it Rita had no intention of getting married?”
Bev takes a deep breath. “Correct. Her dad even set up a husband for her. It was a friend of his who’d been widowed. He was ten years older than Rita, but Alan Stonehill said she needed someone to sort her out. He got her mum to make a wedding dress and everything. He just couldn’t believe she wouldn’t go through with it.”
“When was this?” I study a shelf of photographs, some framed and some just pinned to the wall. Rita is easily recognisable amongst her friends, with her blonde hair framing her strong bone structure. I wouldn’t say she was exactly pretty, but she looks intriguing. In the photographs she is laughing, her arms around various boys, kissing Bev on the cheek. She looks happy.
Bev, unaware that my attention has wandered, is still talking. “Yes, earlier this year. Of course she never turned up at the church. She stayed here a lot, but she could never quite leave home. Partly because of Sammy and her other brothers. They’re all idiots, but they loved Rita and would have done anything for her. I don’t think they knew half of what her dad did to her, or they would have killed him. He’s a vile bastard but he has this hold over the whole family, and he comes over all nice when it suits him.”
“So Rita rebelled by going on protest marches and getting loads of boyfriends?” I take the cigarette she offers and feel the tension in my back start to uncoil.
Bev shakes her head, blowing out smoke, relaxing back against the chair. “No. She was that sort of girl anyway. She was curious, and passionate about what she believed in. Rita was the life and soul of every party we ever went to. Nobody would have guessed what she had to put up with at home.”
“What about her mum?”
Bev sighs. “Useless. Agrees with Alan about everything and goes to church every Sunday. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but she’s got a picture of Jesus Christ in her kitchen and she lets her husband beat their daughter. How does she sort that out in her mind?”
I glance at my watch. “I know you said you think Sammy is wrong, but if you had to guess, who would you say would have killed her?” From everything she has just poured out, I know the answer, but I’m interested to see if she’ll actually accuse him. As she’s already mentioned that she gave a statement to the police, I’d guess that’s why Alan Stonehill has been summoned back the police station.
Bev is twisting her brown curls, yanking them into a knot, pulling the long strands hard, and letting them spring out. “If I had to bet on it, I’d say it was someone working for Rita’s dad. The man has a massive ego, for all his pretending to be just a hard-working normal man. She really showed him up by not turning up for that wedding, and I think he decided to just get rid of her. To his mind, he had failed by not being able to control her, so what else was left?” She sighs. “I’m studying law at uni, and Rita’s dad will probably be part of my dissertation.”
“I suppose there are less obvious ways of murdering someone than bang in the middle of the Derby Trial in front of a few thousand people,” I say, watching her face. Why is she so convinced it was suicide, when she’s just presented me with the perfect motive for murder?
She interrupts me. “Th
at’s one of the reasons why Sammy’s ideas are pure fantasy. Just because your dad hits you, it doesn’t mean he’ll plan to murder you in the middle of a horse race. If she’d been found dead at home, I could have seen that maybe he went too far, and believe me I’d be the first to accuse the evil bastard if that was the case. But at the Derby Trial? No. Besides, I know that Alan and all his boys were out on the course working, not standing up in the stands. It just doesn’t fit.”
Bev is getting agitated again, hardly finishing her cigarette before she lights another, so I change the subject. “Did you know any of Rita’s chaps?”
“A bit. We didn’t all socialise together, for obvious reasons, but I did meet Roger. As far as I can make out, the police seemed pretty interested in him to start with. God knows why, the man wouldn’t hurt a fly. Paul, I know from way back. He was her first boyfriend, but I haven’t seen him for ages . . . Hmm . . . the jockeys and the trainer I never met. She also met some reporter on a protest last year, but that was just a fling. I told the police everything I know, and last I heard they were about to close the case. I suppose that’s why Sammy’s getting all wound up.”
I’m going to miss my bus if I don’t go now, but I try one last question. “From what I can make out, the week before Rita died, all her lovers found out, or were tipped off about one another. Could that be down to her dad?”
Bev scowls. “I wouldn’t put anything past that man. He’s pure evil, and he pushed her to the limit.” Hot, angry tears are spilling down her sharp cheekbones, and she scrubs at them furiously with her sleeve. “Sorry. Sammy’s a good boy but not the brightest star in the sky, so don’t believe everything he tells you. Everybody has their limits, and Rita dealt with more than most. In the end . . . well . . . I suppose you know she was pregnant?”
I nod. “Sammy told me. Was she sure?”
“Oh yes, she was in a right state. She’d missed two of her monthlies, and the daft cow didn’t know if it was Roger’s, Joey’s or Tommy’s.” Bev gives a harsh bark of laughter. “I told her to go for Roger, because he’s got the most money!”
“But then her chaps all found out about one another . . .” I say thoughtfully.
“There you go. As far as I can see she was in a state, everything had gone wrong, and she couldn’t see herself as a single mum. The poor cow only saw one way out, and she took it.”
Chapter Ten
I miss the bus and have to walk three miles up to the town to catch another one, but even the heat and the annoyance of being late to meet Kenny, can’t stop my mind from racing. Rita did have a secret life, but it wasn’t just about all her different men and her various causes, it was about her escaping the horrors that awaited her at home. She was fighting for her freedom in the only way she knew how.
I know how hard it is to cut ties with your family, and how hard it is to walk away from abuse. If someone tells you long and hard enough that you are useless, a tart, or a waste of time, part of you starts to believe it. The other part kicks back and starts to plan how to escape.
The bus is surprisingly crowded for this time of the evening, but I manage to grab a seat. I’m squashed next to a large lady with bulging shopping bags that spill out into the aisle. She’s reading the Herald and chuntering away to her friend about some local scandal. I catch Rita’s name, and peer across her arm.
‘Tragic Love Story Plot Thickens.’
Sources close to Rita Stonehill, who was killed after apparently throwing herself in front of the leaders in the Brighton Derby Trial, have divulged that she had a third lover. Roger Harper, whose family own Harper, Gooden and Sons, was also seeing tragic Rita. Police have questioned the twenty-two-year-old, as well as well-known jockey, Joey Castle, and trainer, Tommy O’Mara. DC Little, who is leading the investigation for Brighton Police, informs us that at this stage the police have no comment to make.
In a further scandal that is sure to shock and sadden all involved, it is rumoured that Rita was pregnant.’
“Do you want the paper, love?” the woman says crossly, and I realise I’ve been leaning across her, absorbed in the story.
“Sorry. It’s just . . . I missed that story earlier,” I say lamely.
“Horrid little piece, isn’t it?” The woman on the other side of the aisle joins in. “So the poor girl got herself in trouble. It happens nowadays, doesn’t it? There’s no cause to speak ill of the dead and start writing stories like that about her. She’s paid the price already, hasn’t she?”
Luckily the bus judders to a halt at the top of the Mill Road, and I jump out into the fresh breeze. The stables are only a half mile walk, and it takes me past Dyke Hill Cottages, which will soon be Mary’s new home.
* * *
Tommy O’Mara’s yard, Tegdown Stables, is every bit as impressive as it seemed when we drove past the other night. The brick stables are arranged in a square, framed by a stone archway. There is a clock tower at one end, and the sprawling old farmhouse is covered in red roses. The yard is immaculate and busy, lads are running around grooming horses, mucking out empty stables, and leading their glossy charges in and out under the archway.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with sparse blond hair is standing smoking next to Kenny and James. Their notebooks are open and they appear to be scribbling frantically.
Donovan shows me Basil Pride’s empty stable. “We can’t believe it. First Rita, and now Pridey — that’s his stable name. People are saying that someone’s cursed our yard with bad luck.” He gives a wry smile, but quickly touches the silver cross hanging on a leather thong around his neck. “They’ve brought that Roger Harper back in for questioning too, the useless toff.”
“I’m so sorry. Pearl told me you were supposed to be riding him in the Derby.”
“Yeah, Joey was bummed at getting jocked off, but I reckon it was the Rita thing that did it. Tommy didn’t realise she was getting it elsewhere in the yard, and he doesn’t like being made a fool of. Well, they might get Pridey back I suppose, but who knows . . ? Right, I’ve got to ride out in the second lot, so I’ll catch up with you later. We’re running late, it’s thrown our usual routine out the bloody window.” He kisses Pearl on the lips and swaggers off towards a prancing bay horse that is being barely restrained by his lad.
We watch Donovan being legged up, finding his stirrups and gathering the reins in one fluid movement, before the horse bounds across the yard in a series of stiff-legged leaps. Donovan just laughs, barely moving in the saddle like he’s glued to it, and he leads the string out under the archway, saluting Pearl with a cheeky little grin.
“I’m going to be exhausted for the night shift, but I just had to come up here,” Pearl says, pushing a sweaty tendril of red hair out of her face.
“I was going to ask Donovan if he knew any more about Rita.” Quickly, I tell her about Sammy being convinced that his sister was murdered, and Bev’s allegations that Alan Stonehill beat his daughter. “And Bev also confirmed that Rita was pregnant. According to her, she was about two months gone.”
“Bloody hell, Rubes, what a mess. Honestly, I think she probably killed herself, but then I don’t know anything about it. I can see why her brother doesn’t want to believe that. He’s looking for someone to blame, someone to take his anger out on, but he’s grieving, so it’s understandable.”
“Don’t you think there is a case there then? I really wanted to ask Donovan if he knew anything about Joey or Tommy . . . You know, how they might have reacted when they found out their girl was seeing someone else.”
“I still reckon it’s a suicide. Tragic, but one of those awful things. You can try Donovan, but I don’t think he’s really into noticing anything except the horses. I won’t see him until Friday night because of my shifts, but you go ahead.” She yawns. “I must go soon and try to get a nap in. The new matron is a total cow, and much as I love working on the surgical ward, I’m going to try for a transfer if she keeps on nagging me.”
“Maybe you should go and work in the matern
ity ward, and then you can deliver Mary’s next baby.”
My cousin puts her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. “Ruby! Is she pregnant?”
“No. Don’t get too excited! Not yet anyway, but I know she wants to have more.” I laugh at her expression.
The boys finish up with Tommy, thanking him and moving away as he turns to another reporter who is waiting, pencil poised over his notebook. I study him covertly. He’s not good-looking at all, but he has a certain power that I suppose a young girl might find attractive. Just now, he is glowering at anyone who gets near him, but these aren’t ordinary circumstances. Pearl has previously described him as charming. He may be charming, but he also has a wife. How must she be feeling, now her husband’s private life has been all over the papers?
“Any luck?” I ask Kenny, and he shakes his head. “Man, this is a weird one. Poor Tommy’s crushed. First his girl, then his top horse. It really does look like someone is out to get him. He’s talking to anyone he can, because he says the further he can spread the word, the better the chances are of Pridey being found. That next chap is from the Daily Record.”
James is still scribbling, and he pauses to bite the end of his pencil thoughtfully. “Tommy reckons it’s an inside job, and a very professional one too. Normally the lads or the dogs would hear something, but the horse literally just vanished into thin air. Oh look, Rubes, there’s your nice friend, DC Little.” He grins maliciously, and I scowl at him.
“Miss Baker.” As usual, the policeman focuses entirely on my chest area when he speaks to me.
He’s not a bad copper from what I can remember. But he does annoy me with all his old-fashioned nonsense — his belief that women should stay in their place, preferably next to a kitchen stove, with possibly some activity in the bedroom whenever he feels like it. The world is changing, and men like him need to change with it.