by Daisy White
Taking a deep breath of warm salty air, I try to calm my heartbeat. Telling Kenny I might be going to help find Beverly’s daughter has just made it real. Should I really do this? But my brain is buzzing with ideas, and at the back of my mind, I keep seeing a little girl holding her mother’s hand, and then that same little girl vanishes and the mother is crying. And what about Beach Girl? Is it really coincidence? Beverly may not have shown much emotion, but when she talked about her daughter, the pain seemed to roll around her in invisible waves. I lean against the railings, listening to the rush and hiss of the sea as the water rises over the stones, before rolling back with a crash of froth and bubbles.
Children are screaming and laughing at the water’s edge, with their parents fussing over sun hats and beach umbrellas. I should hurry back, but instead I light another cigarette, and stand, thinking, on the baking seafront. The seagulls whirl and twist lazily in the warm blue air, spiralling up until they are no more than white specks over the Channel.
Is she innocent? Reluctantly, I turn and walk slowly back up to the salon, stopping once to grind the finished cigarette underfoot. By the time I reach the gleaming white and gold front of Johnnie’s salon, I know one thing: if Beverly is telling the truth, I’m going to help her. I suppose I’ve known ever since she asked. There is something compelling about her, about her tragic story. It makes me think of baby Summer. Would I be doing this if Mary and I weren’t bringing up a little girl ourselves?
Later, as we close up I wave off my colleagues, and Mary heads off to collect Summer from Jackie, neighbour of the formidable Joyce, and another helpful babysitter. Jackie has six kids of her own and she’s an absolute angel. She told Mary straight away that she couldn’t care less if the dad was around or not, and she was happy to take Summer as much as Mary needs. Her kids are great too — a talkative, grubby, happy brood who spend a lot of time on their dad’s allotment.
Telling Mary that I’ll get some shopping on the way home gives me more time with Beverly. I get a little niggle of guilt at lying, but really my best friend has enough going on without worrying about me turning detective again.
This time the telephone box is empty, and I push my way past a group of small boys kicking a football against the glass sides.
“News desk.”
“Hi Kenny, it’s me. Have you got anything?”
“Loads. Do you want to meet up tonight and I’ll give you some light reading, or do you want the gist of it now?”
“Now, please, if you’ve got a minute. Hang on, let me put some more money in . . .” I fumble for another coin and shove it into the slot. I could have telephoned from the salon now everyone’s gone home, but until I’ve told everyone about the case, I feel a bit . . . guilty, I suppose. “I’m meeting her in half an hour, so if you could just give me the most important bits, then I can meet you at lunch break tomorrow and get the rest.”
“OK. So Beverly Collins was a perfectly normal mum living on the White Oak estate. She had just the one kid, Ella, and her boyfriend left them soon after she was born. Must have been a nice chap! That’s the only thing that stands out, that she was a single mum. You know better than anyone how some people are about that, because of Mary. Anyway, she worked down the fish market for a bit, then she cleaned some offices for a bank. It says she reported the kid missing in the evening. She had been playing just outside the house with some others as usual. Beverly went in for a drink, and when she came back Ella was gone.”
“None of the other kids saw anything? That’s a bit strange.”
“No, the strange bit is that most of the other kids were too young to say anything much, but there was an eight-year-old girl keeping an eye on them all, who swore than Beverly took Ella in with her to get a drink. The girl also said Ella was a bit whiny and her mum was cross with her.”
“OK . . . Go on.”
“Beverly was questioned, but three weeks later actually arrested. It seems that the evidence against her just kept conveniently stacking up. Bloody clothes found in a bonfire in her backyard, blood in Ella’s bedroom, and plenty of people coming forward to say she was verging on being a loony who drank too much and couldn’t take care of her kid. She swore they were lying, of course.”
“A loony? No wonder she said people hated her. But I can’t understand why her neighbours or whoever would come forward with things like that if they weren’t true. Likewise the girl who said she took Ella inside with her the day she allegedly went missing.” I think for a moment. Maybe they all just hated her because she was an unmarried mother? I know Mary gets quite a few comments, although of course her situation is slightly different . . .
Kenny says suddenly, “I suppose the neighbours could have been bribed. It was a very high profile case, so the police were under pressure to solve it and let everyone see that justice was being done. Anything involving a child is always big news. The trouble with this one was they didn’t ever find a body. Just for the record, the policemen mentioned in the case are an Inspector Roberts, who retired in ’58, and a DC Appleton, who I believe is over in Hastings now. Probably been promoted by now.”
“Not Inspector Hammond? That’s a shame. Come to think of it, I think Johnnie said he's only been in Brighton for five years. OK, so before my money runs out, if she wasn’t tried for murder, what was she convicted of?”
“Child cruelty. She was sent to Holloway. I mean, they obviously had to get her for something, or the police would’ve looked really stupid — all that evidence and she gets off free? Ten years is pretty harsh, but she was never going to hang for murder without a body, even with all that supposed evidence against her.”
I consider this, a sick feeling working its way up from my stomach to my throat. “If she’d been convicted of murder would she have hung?”
“Doubt it. The Home Office have the final say, but I don’t think any women convicted of murder have actually been hanged since Ruth Ellis. I’ll have a bit more of a dig around and if I get some more information I’ll bring it with me tomorrow. I must say, the woman’s got a lot of gumption, coming back here. Makes me think she might be innocent after all. I just hope everyone else thinks that or she could find herself in real trouble.”
“Oh hell, my money’s running out. Thanks Kenny, you’re an angel! See you tomorrow at about one.” I ring off, heart pounding, adrenalin crackling round my veins. If Beverly was set up it was a pretty big operation. Could you really bribe so-called witnesses? And what about the bloodstained clothes in her house?
Chapter Five
Glancing at my watch I see I’m nearly late for my meeting with Beverly, and dart into the traffic, dodging a big cream open top bus and a few motorbikes. My pink and grey uniform sticks to my back and even my bare legs are damp with sweat. I rake my short blonde hair back with all ten fingernails, and march up towards Brenda’s Cafe.
Beverly is waiting, a large straw sunhat obscuring her view of the road. She is sitting up very straight, thin shoulders rigid and square, and a few stray brown curls have escaped from her messy chignon.
I wave at Brenda, and she yells, “Hallo darling! You want your usual, I suppose?”
“Just tea, please.” I’m starving but I’m not sure if I want to have a meal with Beverly Collins. Despite the hat, a few elderly customers are staring openly, whispering as they eat their chicken and chips. I never realised how hard it must be to be famous, especially in a criminal capacity.
Beverly turns at the sound of my voice, and her face is set in that slightly hard, wary expression, but her eyes are bright and hopeful. I grab a rusty metal chair and yank it to the table with a screech before settling myself opposite. I’ve smoked too much already this afternoon, and my throat hurts, but I shake another cigarette out of the packet. Sweat is damp across my shoulder blades and under my arms — I wish I’d had time to go home and change out of my grubby uniform.
Beverly declines a cigarette and gets straight down to business. “Have you decided to help me?”
I
take a breath of smoke, blowing it out into the sunshine, where it hangs for a moment in the hot, dust-filled air. Brenda’s food is amazing, but she’s never been very keen on housekeeping. Mind you, with the cafe to run, a hard-working husband to look after, and five kids, why should she bother with a few cobwebs?
“Ruby?”
“Yes. I will help you . . .” I hold up a hand like a policeman giving a traffic signal, “but I can’t promise anything. Your daughter went missing ten years ago. I’ve only lived in Brighton for six months, and I’m not sure the police like me very much, so they won’t help. But you’re right, I do have a few friends who might be willing to do some digging.”
She takes a sip of her own tea, considering. “I take it that you did some research. Does anyone else work with you when you do investigations?”
“I’ve only done one investigation! It isn’t a proper business or anything. But one of my friends works for the Brighton Herald, and he gave me a brief outline of what happened to you.” I stub my cigarette out as Brenda stomps over with tea and half a basket of chips. “Oh, thanks, Brenda, but I don’t need . . .”
“Of course you do, love, you’ll waste away working up at that salon all hours. Get them down you. Oh, and Ruby, love?”
“Yes?”
Brenda looks carefully at my companion, and then addresses me as though Beverly was invisible, and deaf. “You be careful who you have a drink with. That’s all I’m saying.” She nods briskly, and heaves her bulk off to attend to a crowd of young girls who have settled at the next table.
“That’s one of the reasons I can ask you for help. You weren’t here when it happened so you don’t judge me,” Beverly says. There is no anger in her voice now, only a type of flat sadness that belies the determination in those warm brown eyes.
I scoop up a handful of hot chips before pushing the basket over to my companion, who shakes her head. She wraps her hands around her tea, clutching it so hard with those pale fingers that I’m surprised the cup doesn’t break.
“OK. So Kenny, my reporter friend, said that there was a whole lot of really convenient evidence against you, but I assume that much of it was lies, or you wouldn’t be sitting here now. I suppose there are two main questions. Firstly, what really happened to Ella? Secondly, why would someone set you up like that?”
Beverly brushes a hand across her face wearily. “I have thought and thought about that, but honestly, I’m just normal. Or I was,” she adds bitterly as another load of whisperers walk past gawping. “My boyfriend left me when Ella was about two years old. He just came home one day and told me he wasn’t ready to settle down, and he was going to America with a friend of his. They were going to work as lorry drivers or something . . . I never heard from him again, and the police couldn’t trace him. It was hard enough being an unmarried mother, but far worse being a mother without anyone at all. I sometimes wonder if that was when everyone started to hate me. You know they tried to say I was mad and that I drank too much? There was one particular policeman who kept pushing that. Appleton he was called, a right bastard.” She helps herself to some chips and chews quickly, sneaking furtive looks around the cafe.
“I heard about the rumours, the drinking and the gossip about you not being a fit mother. . .” I’m suddenly very aware of the other customers listening in on our conversation. “Look, if you’ve finished your tea, do you want to walk along the seafront for a bit?”
“Yes, I’m done.” She puts some money down on the table, and when I try to add my own she pushes my hand away. “I’ll get this. I had a little bit saved up. You've given me the first ray of hope in ten years.”
No pressure at all, then. I drain my own cup and wave at Brenda, who blows me a kiss. We wander back across the road and join the anonymous crowds of gaudy holiday makers. I find my usual spot on the railings and turn to her.
“I have to get back soon. The girl I live with had to collect her baby after work so I said I’d get some shopping.”
She nods, understanding. “But you want me to tell you what happened that night before you go.”
“That might be a good starting point,” I agree cautiously.
“Ella was playing just outside the house with a group of other kids. Lots of different ages, but I knew all of them. I popped back inside to grab a drink of water. It was water, not a beer, no matter what anyone says. I was gone maybe ten or fifteen minutes at the most, because I realised I needed to get the washing in from the back yard . . . When I came back out most of the kids were still there, but Ella and a couple of others were missing. I didn’t panic right away, of course. This was our road, and our home. All the kids played out. I just assumed she'd gone across to one of the other houses.
“I knocked on a couple of doors, looked behind the playground where the kids had a sort of den in the trees, but even then I didn’t panic. Stan, one of our neighbours, was up fixing the swings, and he thought he’d seen Ella with a big crowd of other kids after lunch. It was only when it started to get dark I was actually thinking something had happened to her. I walked further, knocking on more doors, out onto the path that leads to the Downs, and then the opposite way down to the main road.
“I think I knew then. All the other kids were home safe, but Ella was gone. My neighbours got a search party together and I went in to telephone the police. I remember checking the house and the yard again, hoping I was just being silly and she had snuck in the back way. She was a daft one, and loved hiding. Once she climbed up on the wall behind the old privy in the yard and it took me ages to find her!” She smiles at the memory, and just for a second her face lightens.
I lean my elbows on the green railings, feeling the heat from the metal through my shirt sleeves, and wishing again I’d got home to change. I’m not a detective, of course, but I do see people differently. Not many people know why, but my life changed forever earlier this year. I know what it’s like to track a murderer and I know what it’s like to be one myself. I’d do it again if I had to, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it. For a long time all I could see was the blood on my hands, and the horror of having taken a life.
The sun is hot on my head as I turn away from the sea and face Beverly. “And what happened next?”
Beverly rolls her eyes. “Yes, it was like my mum used to say when something was wrong — ‘Hell on earth’. Not that my mum was any use. Neither of my parents spoke to me after I got pregnant with Ella. They were killed together in a car crash while I was in prison. I never got any letters from them, and they never bothered to come to the trial. But then my dad was always a bit of a flake . . . God, what a time it was. The questions, the constant hope that she might come home at any moment, and finally these people, who I thought were my friends, coming forward to testify against me. I can’t tell you how much it hurt to know that people who I spoke to every day — worked with, even — hated me so much. The clothes they found in the bonfire, and the blood in Ella’s room, the cans of beer and bottles of gin and the mess — someone must have broken in and done all that, and I made it easy for them because I was staying with Annie. That’s my neighbour, Annie. She was one of the only ones who believed me, and her husband told the police I must have been set up. It didn’t do any good, of course. That trial killed off any faith in the police I may have had. I don’t blame the police now I’ve had ten years to think it over, because what else could they do with all that evidence? Someone led them right up the garden path. But I know she’s still alive, Ruby, I feel it.”
“Can you tell me a bit about Ella? Obviously not if it upsets you too much, but it might help to know a bit more about her . . .”
Beverly smiles. “She was a happy little thing, a bit naughty and cheeky but great with the other kids. Even though she was only four, she used to try and help out with the smaller ones. Ella loved teddy bears, and I used to save up and buy her a new one for Christmas, and on her birthdays. She had a real sweet tooth too. Sometimes I had enough for sweets or an ice cream, and she’d give me thi
s great big smile. 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 . . .”
I nod slowly, feeling a lump in my own throat at her obvious pain. Then I glance at my watch. “Thank you, Beverly. I will try my absolute hardest to help you. Have you got a phone number I can contact you on if I find anything?”
“Not yet. I'm staying with Annie, but I can’t put her family in the firing line much longer. Someone chucked a brick through their living room window last night. My old house is rented out to someone else now. I’m going to an aunt of mine who lives in Rottingdean. I know where to find you, and I’ll stay in touch — look, I’ve written down her telephone number, but don’t call unless it’s urgent, will you? She runs the post office and she’s quite respectable, so she’s already taking a chance having me to stay.” Beverly smiles, but her expression is strained. “Maybe I can meet you at Brenda’s after work on a Wednesday evening every week for a proper catch up? I can get the bus.”
“OK. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll see you next week.”
“Good luck, Ruby. I know you’ll find her for me.”
For a moment we stare awkwardly at each other, and for no reason at all, I feel tears pricking my eyes. I blink hard, hastily pretending to shade my eyes from the hot sun. And then I leave her standing there, a small lonely little woman almost hidden by the happy seaside crowds.
Chapter Six
“You’ve done what?”
Summer is lying on a rug, gurgling and waving her arms and legs, all soft and pink after her bath in the sink. Her down of hair is beginning to grow into little curls, and her blue eyes are wide as they follow her mum around the room.
“I’ve agreed to take the case. Well, I’ve agreed to have a chat with a few people and see if I can find anything. It is awful, Mary, she lost her daughter and then was locked up for ten years. Imagine if it was Summer!” I bend down and shake the pink teething rattle for the baby. She reaches tiny fingers up and grabs it in her fist, giving triumphant squeaks.