by Anne Cassidy
‘It’s not an old people’s home, Rose. I doubt anyone will be drinking tea!’
‘That’s exactly what’s wrong with adults! You have a certain image of teenagers! We’re not all eating McDonald’s and swilling Coke. I like tea. No sugar, a touch of milk.’
‘OK, OK. Come tomorrow. Six to eight.’
‘I’ll be here at Emma’s memorial. I could do a bit of work in the library and come afterwards. Thing is, though, I wouldn’t want to come on my own. Can I meet you?’
‘Sure. I get there early, about 5.30. To set up.’
‘Call me, when you get there. Here, take my mobile,’ she said, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. ‘Put your number into it. Let me have yours and I’ll give you my number.’
Henry handed his mobile over to her.
‘God! You need a new one of these. How old is it?’
‘Point taken.’
‘Why do you always say that?’
‘Don’t know. You make me nervous.’
She took her mobile back from him, ‘Ring me tomorrow and I’ll come across to your Sun Club.’
‘Sundown Club.’
‘Who thought of the name, by the way?’
‘I did.’
‘I thought so.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Rose was late for the memorial. Her last class had run over and afterwards the teacher wanted to speak to her about her work. With one eye on the classroom clock she listened to complaints about her last essay, which wasn’t long enough or detailed enough. She hurriedly agreed with the teacher’s comments, promising to do better in the future. By the time she got away the corridors were packed with students milling around after the end of classes. She had to weave her way through and then walk across the site to the George Bernard Shaw Studio. When she got there the memorial was about to start so the main entrance was closed. She stood in one spot, perplexed. It had not been a good day. A teacher came by and directed her up the stairs to the rear doors. When she got in she was surprised to see the auditorium virtually full. She sat on an aisle seat on the last but one row.
She felt hot and shrugged her jacket off. She dumped her rucksack on the next seat and looked at the front pouch. Emma’s mobile phone was still where she’d put it a couple of nights before and she didn’t know what to do about it.
The tiered seats meant that she could see everyone, at least the backs of their heads. It was five or six times the number of people who had come to Ricky Harris’s memorial. She looked along the rows and saw Sara and Maggie. Sara turned at that minute and gave her a wave. On the edge of a row about halfway down was Bee Bee Marshall, and Lewis Proctor was a few seats away from her.
Along the very front row was Emma’s family. A number of adults and a small girl. Among them was Sherry Baxter, one side of her red hair pulled back with a black comb. They were talking to each other and a couple were looking round, waving to people they knew who were behind them. Sherry stared ahead, though, her back solid, her head very still. Rose remembered her weeping a few nights before in the rose garden. The sound had been heartfelt.
Rose didn’t recall any of Ricky Harris’s family being at his memorial. He had a mother and an older brother, Emma had told her, but he hadn’t got on with either of them.
The principal entered then. She stood centre stage as classical music started to play. It went on for some time and the hall quietened. Rose listened to the sound of the orchestra, the strings giving the piece a melancholy feel.
She was reminded of the lessons she had given up, of the violin that sat in its case in her room. She’d started learning to play when she was eight and carried on all the way through her time at Mary Linton. Now she didn’t do it any more. Everything in her life seemed like that at the moment. Things she’d started and not finished. The essay was no good. Her relationship with Joshua was muddled. She’d given up the violin. She’d got involved in Emma’s murder and had half-heartedly tried to find the knife that killed her; instead she’d found her mobile phone. The hunt for her mum and Brendan had stalled.
Nothing was going right.
The music played on while the principal stood with her head bowed as if in deep thought. When it stopped she looked up at the audience, her eyes sweeping across those seated, allowing a moment’s complete silence before she started to talk.
‘May I remind students to have their mobile phones on silent during this service.’
There was a shuffling of movement as students reached into bags to check that their phones were off. Rose didn’t need to check hers. She’d been looking at it on and off all morning to see if she had a text from Joshua. There hadn’t been any. Neither had there been any emails. He’d said he was busy but still she thought he might contact her. It made her feel anxious. Had he perhaps sensed something on Tuesday afternoon? Was he avoiding her? No, that was ridiculous. She was imagining a slight where there was none.
On top of it all she had agreed to go and help Henry Thompson in the Sundown Club. She sighed.
The principal started to speak.
‘It is the fear of all heads and principals of educational establishments that during their career they may have to convene an event like this. A service to mark the death of a student. In the last week I have had the unenviable role of presiding over two such events. It’s a very sad time for the school and its students. Today we are meeting to remember and honour Emma Jane Burke, a student of this school, a daughter, sister and a friend to many people here. It is with great regret that I must …’
Rose listened for a while but felt her thoughts pull her away.
When she saw Henry Thompson again she would give him Emma’s mobile. It would be difficult to explain because she could not tell him about the CCTV photographs. She would have to say that she had gone into the cemetery that very morning and had found the mobile by chance. It was a tall story but if she stuck to it, who could say whether it was true or not? The police would most probably be so pleased to have it along with the murder weapon that they wouldn’t worry how they got it.
Or she could post it to them anonymously.
She sighed again. Why had she kept the phone at all? She’d intended to try and find out who had made the call. But that, like everything else in her life at the moment, hadn’t been done.
What was wrong with her?
Someone from Emma’s family had got up to speak. It was a woman of about thirty dressed in dark trousers and a denim jacket. She had flat hair that hung in strings down the side of her face. She was Emma’s aunt, she said, and went on to read a statement from the family. Rose watched her. It was a painful sight. The woman was in tears and her voice kept breaking with every sentence. She was holding up the notepaper in front of her and her arms were trembling. Rose found herself tensing her breath, willing the woman to get through her statement and go back and sit down. Eventually she did and the person next to her put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.
Two female students got up and had statements to read. The music changed and a familiar song came on. It had been one of Emma’s favourite’s, one of the girls said, and everyone sat and listened while the girls waited for it to finish before reading their pieces.
Bee Bee looked round. Rose caught her eye. She’d never spoken to Bee Bee face to face and yet it seemed as though she knew her. I saw you run across that bridge, she thought, staring straight at her. Bee Bee turned back to face the stage. Lewis Proctor glanced round at her but made no sign that he saw her there.
Was it Bee Bee who made that call to Emma?
One of the girls started to read from a piece of paper. She read slowly but quietly so it was hard to hear every word she said. Rose stopped trying and pulled her rucksack on to her lap and opened the pouch at the front. In it she saw the pink mobile, still in the plastic bag where Skeggsie had placed it. She pulled it out and slid it out of the bag. She flipped the lid and turned it on, making sure it was on silent.
There was a way to try and find out the ide
ntity of the caller.
Make a call on Emma’s phone.
Reply to the text that was sent to Emma.
Just about everyone who had any link to Emma was in the auditorium at that moment.
The principal was standing up. Her voice rang clear and loud after the nervous girls and the tearful aunt.
‘I would like you all to take part in a minute’s silence.’
The silence was solid. Everyone in the auditorium went very still. Rose looked down at the tiny screen and typed out a text.
Who are you?
She waited until the end of the silence. The principal thanked everyone and the classical music started again. A low buzz of conversation began and she pressed Send. She kept her eyes on Bee Bee and was disappointed when no sound came. Then she remembered that all phones were on silent. She waited as bit by bit people took their phones out of bags and pockets and began to look at them. The conversation got louder and she was worried that she wouldn’t hear a tone as the text arrived. Her eyes stayed on Bee Bee, who had taken her phone out of her pocket and was staring at it.
Rose got up and walked a couple of steps down towards the stage. Now she was close enough to Bee Bee to hear a ring tone.
She sent the text a second time. Who are you?
She waited.
Bee Bee’s ring tone sounded. Bee Bee looked at the screen and she heard her swear softly. Rose stood very still. She’d been right. She’d seen Bee Bee’s silver boots and bangles on the bridge and now she had proof that it was Bee Bee’s phone that made the call.
A sound came from the other side of the auditorium. A wailing sound. A loud cry. She turned round and saw Emma’s family huddling around Sherry Baxter. Sherry was sobbing loudly and trying to shrug off her relatives. Rose looked at her with pity. Sherry had felt the loss badly. She had been crying at Ricky Harris’s memorial, then at the rose garden and now here.
‘Leave it, please, leave it,’ Sherry shouted out through her tears, backing away from her relatives towards the doors of the auditorium.
She went out and was followed by some of the adults. Looking round Rose saw that Bee Bee was heading down the stairs towards the exit. She went after her, sidestepping students who were dawdling. Emma’s family had congregated in the foyer but Sherry had gone outside into a small courtyard. She had a lit cigarette in one hand and her mobile phone in the other. She was walking up and down, her body language warding sympathisers off. Her face was blotched and she kept wiping her nose with the hand that held the cigarette.
Bee Bee was heading for the toilets. Rose followed her, one hand in her pocket holding on to Emma’s phone. There was a short queue inside and Bee Bee was at the front. Rose was two girls behind her. She wished she could see Bee Bee’s face, to see if there was any sign of upset. She would make the call one more time to make sure she was right. She’d wait until Bee Bee went into the cubicle and then send the text for a third time.
‘Hey, Rose,’ a voice said.
A girl from one of her classes were standing behind her in the queue. Rose gave a half-smile. Her name was Zoe something. She really couldn’t get involved in a conversation with her now. She wanted to keep her concentration on the phone text and Bee Bee.
‘Did you see that scene from Sherry!’ Zoe said. ‘Talk about drama! I call it hypocritical.’
Rose frowned. One of the toilets flushed and a door opened. Bee Bee went into the cubicle. Rose took the phone out of her pocket. Turning her back on the girls she accessed the text she’d composed earlier.
‘All those tears and she was sneaking off behind Emma’s back. Cow. How could she do that her stepsister?’
Rose turned round to face Zoe. She had half an ear to the cubicle and was going to press the Send button any second.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Sherry and all her blubbering. I saw her snogging Ricky Harris a couple of weeks before he was stabbed. Behind her stepsister’s back! She was all over him. It was up Canary Wharf. I didn’t have any classes so I went there with my mum to look at the shops.’
‘Sherry and Ricky?’
‘On the escalator. We were going up. And they were coming down.’
The sound of a toilet flushing distracted Rose. The other cubicle door opened and the queue moved forward.
Sherry and Ricky Harris? Together? Behind Emma’s back?
Moments later Bee Bee emerged, the door banging behind her. Rose found herself staring at her. She’d still not sent the text. She’d been thrown by a mental picture of Sherry’s red hair and Ricky Harris’s face. Together. She was astonished.
‘What’s your problem, girl?’ Bee Bee demanded.
Rose couldn’t say anything. In her hand was Emma’s mobile. Bee Bee’s eyes were boring into her. She looked down at the phone and pressed the Send button. Bee Bee made a loud tsking sound and shoved past her. She went out of the toilets.
Rose followed her. She pressed the Send button and watched Bee Bee walk back up to Lewis Proctor. She waited for her to get her phone out and receive the text for the fourth time.
But she didn’t reach for her phone. She didn’t pat her pocket to feel it vibrating. She smiled up at Lewis, her phone of no interest to her. Rose felt her shoulders slump. She’d been wrong. It had just been a coincidence. Bee Bee’s phone had rung at the very moment she had sent the text.
Someone else had received it.
Another phone had got the message Who are you? Four times.
She swivelled round and looked through the glass window at Sherry Baxter, who was standing in the middle of the courtyard staring at her mobile phone.
Rose pulled out the pink handset. Instead of sending a text she rang the number at the top of the screen. She waited, hardly breathing, and moments later Sherry’s face creased up as she looked at her own phone. She pressed a button and lifted the phone to her ear.
Rose put Emma’s phone to her ear.
There was silence for a moment, then a voice.
‘Who is this? You have the wrong number. You have to stop calling me.’
As she listened she looked out at Sherry, whose lips were synching the words.
‘Stop calling me,’ she said and the call was ended.
Sherry Baxter threw her cigarette to the ground and then walked off out of the courtyard. Rose waited a few moments, her chest puffed up with indignation. Emma’s stepsister. How could she?
Then she followed her.
TWENTY-SIX
Rose kept her distance. She let Sherry Baxter walk ahead and stopped a couple of times to look in shop windows in case she caught up with her. Sherry went past the train station and headed for the bus stop. The High Street was crowded with students from the school but Sherry just walked ahead, not acknowledging any of them. She stopped when she got to the bus shelter and Rose turned into a shop. The window was full of sari fabric, dazzling colours, swathes of it hanging side by side, jewellery stacked along the lower portion. Rose saw rows of bangles, hundreds of them. She thought of Bee Bee.
Why was she running across the bridge on the night that Emma was murdered?
Rose looked round. Sherry was in the shelter waiting for a bus. She had her mobile in her hand. Rose registered then that Sherry was dressed from head to toe in black, in mourning for her stepsister. The colour of her hair seemed to contradict the emotion. It sat glossy and bright, one side held stylishly back by a black comb.
She and Ricky Harris had been seen together.
How could that be? How could Sherry deceive her stepsister so?
A bus was coming. It edged forward through the traffic and Rose could see that Sherry was standing forward, intending to get on it. She walked a few metres, keeping herself to the inside of the pavement, hoping that Sherry didn’t turn suddenly and see her there. The bus stopped and Sherry moved forward. The doors took a while to open and when they did she stepped up on to the platform, followed by some other students and a couple of men in workmen’s clothes. Rose moved closer to the stop a
s Sherry walked further into the bus. Then Sherry went upstairs. Rose stepped quickly across to the bus stop and on to the bus. She showed her travel card and then headed along the bus to the very back. She sat in the corner opposite a big woman and a toddler. From where she was she could see the foot of the stairs.
It was about six stops to Parkway East.
Sherry would get off there and head down Cuttings Lane towards the Chalk Farm Estate.
The bus moved off and she sat back. It stuttered forward and then stopped, waiting for a car to pull out from a parking place.
Why was she doing this? It would be enough to simply tell the police what she had found out. They knew where Sherry lived. They would go and see her, question her about the call to Emma. But Rose didn’t feel happy about that. Sherry had made this personal by shouting Rose down at Ricky Harris’s memorial. She had shamed her in front of all the other students by saying that she hadn’t got to the cemetery in time to help Emma, that she hadn’t bothered, when all the time she had sent the message that had made Emma go in earlier than she had planned.
There was another reason. Rose had seen Sherry answer the call and she didn’t want to let her out of her sight. The events of the last couple of weeks had been fragmented and blurred. It had been impossible to get a clear picture of what had happened either on Parkway East station or in St Michael’s Cemetery. Rose had found something out now and she wasn’t going to let it go until she understood what had happened on those two occasions when she had stood over someone’s dead body.
She was staying with Sherry.
As the bus stopped and started she remembered Sherry’s tears at Ricky’s memorial. Then she had thought they were for her stepsister but she had been wrong. Sherry was crying for Ricky Harris. Maybe she had been the only person in school who had cried for Ricky. Possibly she had loved him.
How long had she been seeing him?
Was it just during the summer when Emma had broken up with him? Did she fall for Ricky and convince herself that Ricky felt the same way? Then when Emma broke up with Lewis and went back to Ricky did that mean that she was out of the picture? Or did Ricky keep on seeing Sherry at the same time as he was seeing her stepsister.