Detective Ruby Baker series Box Set

by Daisy White

  The bus is hot and cramped, and I wriggle uncomfortably in the sticky seat, inhaling the sour smell of diesel and dust. By the time we have stopped at numerous small villages and towns, I’m also feeling sick, and wishing I’d brought the paper or a book to distract me.

  The thought of a paper reminds me I never told Kenny where I was going, but he will probably be madly busy. They have another local free-sheet going to print today. The window is smudged with dirt and dead insects, with a salty sheen across the glass, but I can see the huge hills that rise above the sheer drop that is Beachy Head. The lighthouse stands majestic but tiny, only just visible from my viewpoint.

  I get off thankfully, right on the seafront, opposite the Grand. The huge white hotel is immaculate in the hot sun, and tourists are swarming in and out of the main doors like so many colourful insects. The beach is packed with day trippers, and the gardens that separate the road from the beach are dotted with wandering couples and screaming children.

  I drag my hand-drawn map from my bag and set off, ignoring the luscious scents of fish and chips and the sweet temptation of pink clouds of candy floss. Paul lives with his fiancée, Lorna, which is a bit unusual. Most people wait until they’re married to move in together.

  Number twelve is in the middle of a seedy-looking row of pastel-coloured houses. The gate is hanging off the hinges, and rubbish bags are piled next to the front door. A tiny patch of garden is rank with tall weeds scorched white in the summer sun, cigarette butts, and a broken beer bottle.

  I bang on the door, and rub my sweaty hands on my skirt. Maybe I should have changed out of my work uniform? Self-consciously I push my hair out of my eyes, and take a deep breath.

  A short, round girl with pretty hazel eyes and long shiny black hair finally answers the door. Her hand on the door frame shows a ring on the second finger, so I assume this must be Lorna.

  “Hallo, I’m looking for Paul. Sorry, you don’t know me, but I work at a hairdressing salon in Brighton, and I was talking to Paul’s gran . . .” My words trundle on, not making much sense, and she stares at me. Worried that she is about to dismiss me as some loony, I add quickly, “Paul’s gran sent me. She said it would be alright to have a word with Paul.”

  “Why?”

  I bite my lip. “Are you Lorna?”

  “Yes. Paul is in, but why have you come to speak to him?” She looks marginally more friendly at my obvious discomfort, but still wary.

  “It’s sort of personal. Family business,” I say eventually.

  We stare at each other, while a few seagulls squabble overhead and a car backfires further down the road, making me jump.

  “Lorna? Who’s that?” A boy appears behind her in the doorway, and I let out a tiny breath of relief.

  “She says she needs to talk to you about family business,” Lorna tells him.

  “Hallo, Paul. Sorry to barge in. This won’t take up much time, but it’s really important,” I say quickly.

  Luckily he makes decisions quicker than his girl, and he nods. “I can give you ten minutes. Lorna, babe, do you want to go and get yourself that dress you saw in C&A last week? Here, I got paid in cash.” He shoves a few crumpled notes into her hands, and her eyes widen in amazement.

  “Paul! What about the rent? You can’t just—”

  He cuts her off with a quick kiss, and practically pushes her out of the door. Although she gives me a quick, doubtful look on her way out, she’s soon trotting up the road in the direction of the seafront.

  Paul is a tall, lanky boy, with curtains of greasy dark hair, and a slightly languid attitude. The tiny house is filled with clutter, and the lino is sticky under my shoes. Two kittens play on a heap of shoes, and a shaggy dog is sleeping by the back door, ignoring my presence.

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He clatters around, and I’m wondering how the hell to start asking him about Rita when I catch sight of a box of leaflets. The familiar CND emblem is emblazoned on each one, and when I look more closely, the clutter isn’t just usual household stuff. Banners are stacked in the corner next to the table, and a typewriter sits between piles of newspapers and letters.

  “You interested in CND?” Paul dumps a chipped enamel mug onto the table next to me.

  “I don’t know much about it. I do remember my mum showing me pictures of Hiroshima though.” This is true. My mum had a stack of old newspaper clippings, things she kept because she felt they were momentous, tragic, of international importance. When I was younger, she would sometimes take the shoebox out and show us the clippings and photographs. “My mum hates anything to do with war.”

  Paul nods approvingly and slurps his tea. “So, why are you here?”

  “Rita Stonehill. Her brother doesn’t think her death was suicide or an accident, and since she died a lot of strange things have been happening. I think, we think, that there is more to this, and your name has come up a few times.”

  He watches me for a while, head tilted like a bird of prey scoping out its next victim. At the mention of Rita’s name, his face tightens as if with pain, and he breathes in sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose between bony finger and thumb. “Are you a reporter?”

  “No, I’m a hairdresser, but sometimes, unofficially, somebody asks me for help. Your gran and I were talking and she mentioned that you’d kept in touch with Rita.”

  He’s still suspicious, and I really can’t blame him. What would I do if a stranger turned up on my doorstep and started asking questions about my ex-boyfriend? I’d probably shut the door on them. “Look, I am sorry to just turn up like this, but I think you might be able to help.”

  Paul gets up from the table and starts to sift through papers. With his back to me, he asks sharply, “Which brother thinks Rita was murdered? Because that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” He swings round suddenly, confronting me, mouth set in a taut line, eyes blazing.

  “Sammy.”

  Again there is silence, and he rubs a hand over his greasy hair. There are purple shadows under his eyes, and his nails are bitten down to the quick.

  I’m trying desperately to think of something that will reassure him. “I don’t want to cause trouble, but, well, I want to find out the truth. Everyone I speak to has seen a different side to Rita, and I want to find out who she really was.” I scrabble for a connection to the protests. “I saw Benjy Harley the other day. He said he met Rita on an Aldermaston protest, and I read in the paper about Purple Corner Chemicals owning the missing racehorse.”

  Hands in pockets, he leans against the wall. “Benjy is a bastard, a slimy little weasel who thought he could get a story out of Rita, and a few nights of fun. He got more than he bargained for.”

  “I did get the impression he had an axe to grind, despite him saying they parted with no hard feelings.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen the Herald recently. He hasn’t stopped bitching, has he?”

  I sip my tea, careful not to dislodge any of the towering piles of paperwork that teeter dangerously close to the table’s edge. “So, what happened with him and Rita?”

  Paul sighs. “I’m sure your heart’s in the right place, but I do know a bit about the things Rita had going on in her life, and to be honest, I wasn’t surprised when I heard she had killed herself. Of course I am furious that I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it, but I certainly don’t think she was murdered. Do you have any evidence?”

  I admit that I don’t. “What do you know about Purple Corner Chemicals?”

  He shrugs. “They throw resources at Aldermaston, and they support the spread and advancement of nuclear weapons. They’re bastards, but they didn’t have anything to do with Rita. Not with her death anyway.”

  I wait, and eventually he sighs again and slumps down at the table next to me.

  “How long have you and Rita been back in touch?” I ask.

  “Years. You know that her brothers beat me up? I couldn’t walk for months afterwards, and since my folks were moving
to Eastbourne, I came too. I met her again at a CND rally, and after that we became friends again, nothing romantic, because that was all dead, but good friends.”

  “Was there anything that happened recently that might suggest she upset the wrong people? I know about her dad.”

  “That he beat her? Yeah, they seem keen on hitting people, that family. Rita was different. She was passionate, wild, and threw herself in and out of causes and love affairs. It was a different one every week.” A shadow of sadness passes across his bony face. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “What happened with Benjy Harley?”

  “He wouldn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. Look, we did a raid on Purple Corner Chemicals last year. It was meant to be a controlled protest, and we got in, chained ourselves to various bits of machinery and waited for morning. Benjy came too, partly because he wanted a good story, and partly because he’d fallen for Rita.”

  “The story of the raid was mentioned in the Herald this week,” I say.

  “That’s right, but they never mentioned the whole truth. It was covered up so well that even we couldn’t make the police investigate.”

  “What happened?”

  He fidgets with his fingers, silent for such a long time that I think he’s not going to answer. “The protest went wrong, and a man died that night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “What? Who was it?” A rush of excitement crackles through my body.

  But Paul is shaking his head. “I told you, it isn’t connected to Rita’s death, but you might as well know. We were all chained to bits of machinery, and one chap padlocked himself to a massive cog and wheel affair. Anyway, the security guards were furious that we had managed to get in and they went round with bolt cutters, dragging us free and throwing us out. They said they’d called the police, but it turns out they never did. They were a new security company and they were worried about losing the contract. It was all going fine for them until this chap, the one chained to the wheel, grabbed the cutters somehow and threw them down into the depths of the machinery.”

  My skin is creeping with tiny icy creatures, and I’m almost afraid to hear what comes next. “Go on.”

  His voice is colourless, but his face is contorted with fury. “One of the security guards grabbed him by the throat, but then another said something that made him laugh, and he dropped the chap back down on the floor. They herded the rest of us into the yard, and started shoving us out the gates. I didn’t notice that this chap wasn’t with us. It was dark and there was a lot of shouting, and I thought I heard a scream, but I couldn’t be sure. It was only later, when we got back down the hill to our camp site, that I did a head count.”

  “You were missing one?” My own fists are clenched, and I’m almost afraid to speak for fear of interrupting his narrative.

  “Yes. These people weren’t all my friends. Half the time word spreads about a protest, or that we’re taking some action as a splinter group, not something the main CND movement would condone, and people turn up. We don’t ask questions.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went back to the factory. Benjy was panting along, still desperate for his big story, and Rita came along too because she was worried.”

  “Did she know the missing chap?”

  “No. That was the problem. We didn’t even know his name. Rita thought it could have been George, someone else was sure it was Marcus . . . We confronted the security guards, but they were adamant that we’d all been thrown out. There wasn’t a flicker of a lie about any of them.”

  “You don’t think he did get out, and just went off in the wrong direction?”

  “No. And do you know what else?”

  I shake my head.

  “When we went back to talk to the security guards, the machinery in the building we had broken into was working. All those cogs and wheels were grinding away, making a hell of a racket.”

  I bite a fingernail. “You think they killed him?”

  “Yes. But there was no proof that he was even there, beyond our say-so. We told the police, and Benjy tried to find a paper that would take his story, but it was all fairytales and hearsay. Purple Corner Chemicals has tentacles in a lot of other businesses too, and who knows, probably a copper or two in their back pocket.”

  “You don’t think Rita would have jumped in front of the horse because she knew who owned it? You know, a kind of grand gesture. If she was determined to take her own life, she wanted it to be symbolic?”

  He considers this carefully, again with that look of pain. “She could have done. But she never mentioned to me that she knew any of the racehorse owners. What attracted her to racing was the glitz and glamour of the track. She loved the intensity of winning and losing. It gave her the same high as her love affairs and her causes.” His eyes are bright, but he swallows hard and manages to keep control.

  “You knew her well.”

  “We wrote or saw each other every week after we first got back in touch. The last time I spoke to her was a week before she died. She was fine, but that was before all her lovers started discovering her secrets.”

  “Did she mention to you that she thought she was pregnant?”

  “No. We talked about the next meeting, and like I said, she seemed in good spirits.”

  He glances at his watch and mutters something about Lorna coming back soon.

  “Did Lorna know Rita?”

  “Yes. She didn’t like the fact that she’d been my girlfriend. She always said I was still in love with her.”

  I pause on my way out to the front door. “Were you?”

  “A little bit maybe. She was that sort of girl. All the clichés. She could light up a room, and she would keep dancing all night . . .” He frowns. “Sorry I couldn’t help, and give Sammy my best. He always was a decent kid, not like the other two bastards.”

  It’s a long bus ride back to Brighton, but I hardly notice it. Just when I think I know who the dead girl is, she shows another side to her character. Paul’s right though, I can’t see how the link with the chemical company does anything more than suggest that she made that ‘grand gesture’ as she died. Which still makes it suicide.

  Kenny is waiting by the bus stop when I jump thankfully down the steps into the evening sun.

  “Hallo, investigator, how did it go?”

  “How did you know where I was?” He is laughing at me, as usual. His shirt is hanging out, and the tan on his face turns his grey eyes clear like water. Unexpectedly, I feel a wave of emotion and pull him close for a hug.

  His arms slip around me, and he explains that Johnnie told him what I was up to when he dropped into the salon to catch up on the gossip. “I checked what time the Eastbourne buses come in and I figured it was either this one or the eight o’clock one.”

  We wander down to the sea, scrunching on pebbles, hand in hand. It takes a while to update him, but when I finally finish, he whistles. “Phew! No wonder Benjy is a bit narky. He went looking for a good story and ended up with a dead fish. He’s still a bitch though, and I can see him blaming Rita for the whole affair.”

  “It’s a funny one, isn’t it? Paul clearly believes a man was murdered that night, but nobody could prove he was even there. Do you think it’s a coincidence that Rita jumped in front of their horse?”

  “I really don’t know, but as you say, that only makes it another reason for suicide, not a murder case. Come on, I’ll stand you a couple of drinks at the Smugglers Kiss.”

  “I’m not dressed for going out, Ken,” I say, laughing. “Besides, I’m starving and I fancy a hotdog. I can smell those onions frying all the way from the pier.”

  * * *

  All of Brighton seems to be in a frenzy of excitement about the Derby. The Herald carries a photograph of Love Me Do triumphing at Newbury earlier this year, and the banner headline, ‘Our Derby Favourite!’ There is also a smaller paragraph on Basil’s Pride on the bottom of page three, and Mary runs her finger over
the head shot of the unlucky chestnut colt.

  “He’s so pretty, isn’t he, with that funny white splash on his face? You’d think somebody would have recognised him, wherever he’s gone.”

  “Not if he’s dead,” Johnnie tells her, then catches her expression. “Sorry, darling, but I’m afraid that is the most likely outcome.”

  After a busy morning, we gather for a tea break, and I tell them about Purple Corner Chemicals, and Rita’s ex-boyfriend, Paul. As I expected, opinion is divided.

  Johnnie is leaning against the wall, sipping his tea, watching me intently as I speak, and he waits as Eve says that it all seems a bit far-fetched to her. “Ruby,” he says, “I hate to say this, but we may never know what really happened to Rita. The chances of her being pushed onto the course deliberately seem to be diminishing by the second.”

  “But what about all the other things that have happened at Tommy’s yard?” Mary asks. “It started with Rita’s death, didn’t it? Whether it was suicide or not, that was when everything started to go wrong at Tegdown. You can’t tell me there’s no connection.”

  Johnnie laughs, picking up a handful of biscuits as the door bangs in the salon, heralding our next batch of clients. “I wouldn’t dare to try, darling, I’m just voicing my opinion. Come on, back to work!”

  At half past four, as we are starting to tidy up, Sammy rings. I stifle a sigh as I take the receiver. I need to tell him exactly what I’ve decided, to put this failure behind me. “Sammy, I’m really sorry but I—”

  He cuts me off mid-sentence, and his harsh voice is triumphant. “My dad says he’ll talk to you.”

  “What?” I say it far too loudly, and a couple of clients look up from their magazines. “You said he was dead against it. Why did he change his mind?”

  “Dunno. There’s been a lot of stuff going on between Tommy and Moses’s yards, hasn’t there? It’s not good for his business. He says he needs both yards back on an even footing, otherwise there’s no proper competition.”