The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit)

by Gyland, Henriette

  Helen shuddered. It made a morbid sort of sense, except it didn’t tally with the picture she was beginning to form in her own head. Only this morning Fay had given her some shampoo because she’d run out. A small thing perhaps, but done as if kindness came natural to her. Fay killing her mother, yes, that she could picture, but a five-year-old child?

  Then there was the missing bag.

  ‘No jury would’ve failed to convict on that kind of evidence,’ said Wilcox.

  Helen nodded. ‘Yeah, I get that. Problem is, the more I think about it, the more I see a bag with an elephant on it, yet you don’t remember it.’

  ‘Not off-hand, no.’ A defensive undertone crept into his voice. ‘Like I said, I’d have to check the files.’

  ‘But don’t you see, if Mrs Cooper took it from the car then you’d have found it with her at the park. I can understand the knife going missing, it was much smaller, but this was a big bag. So if she didn’t take it, then who did? The same person who took the knife maybe?’

  Wilcox regarded Helen with undisguised pity and something else, which was better hidden. Irritation perhaps. ‘Do you still suffer from epilepsy?’

  She flashed him a look. ‘It’s not like a cold which goes away. It’s how my brain works. Anyway, what’s that got to do with it?’ she said, ignoring the fact that she’d asked herself the same question. She hated the idea that the condition made her into a less than reliable witness.

  ‘Nothing, I suppose. I don’t mean to patronise you, but this was a long time ago, and you were five years old. Couldn’t you have got things muddled up in your mind? We all do it sometimes. Written records are important, because they help us to remember.’

  His irritation and defensiveness she could deal with, but his pity got up her nose. ‘And because I was a sick child and have no written records, you can’t take me seriously? I’m telling you, the bag was there.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘There was a dog. Did you speak to the owner?’

  ‘You were the only witness, Helen …’

  ‘There was a dog,’ she insisted.

  He sighed. ‘What sort of dog?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, a big brown one!’

  ‘Be reasonable.’ His voice was kind. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Maybe we can find the dog owner and ask if he saw anything.’ Helen set her mouth in an obstinate line.

  He shook his head. ‘We appealed for further witnesses. No one came forward.’

  ‘They wouldn’t if they’d stolen the bag, would they?’

  ‘The car was checked for fingerprints. We only found yours, your mother’s, Mrs Cooper’s, and a colleague’s, but he had an alibi and no motive. We checked with your mother’s local garage. She’d recently had the car valeted.’ He gave an exasperated shrug. ‘I’m a police officer. It’s my job to build a case, and the courts pass judgement. Fay Cooper killed your mother in a fit of jealous rage. It’s small and sordid, I know, but it’s life. You have to let it go.’

  ‘Where is the bag, then?’ Helen’s eyes stung, and she blinked.

  ‘Among your mother’s things, I imagine.’

  ‘Everything’s been sold. It’s like she never existed.’ She brought her hand to her mouth. I’m not going to cry. Not here, not now.

  Wilcox put his hand on her arm. She wrenched it away from this unwanted pity.

  Get a grip.

  ‘What’s so special about that bag anyway?’

  Unformed images flitted around in her head like bats on a summer night. Why was the bag so important? She’d only thought of it recently when Fay inadvertently jogged her memory. Nothing sentimental had been in it as far as she knew, just stuff, but it had belonged to Mimi, and that made all the difference.

  ‘It was pretty,’ she whispered, ‘and it’s about the only thing I can remember of my mother.’

  Trevor called Jason two days after his visit. Balancing a spirit level on top of a kitchen cabinet, Jason stretched to pick up his mobile which was within reach, but only just.

  ‘Yeah?’

  As usual Trevor didn’t beat about the bush, a trait Jason both admired and found a little un-English at the same time.

  ‘I’ve had a nosey ’round,’ he said, without elaborating where this nosing-around had taken place, ‘and there’s no connection between someone named Helen Stephens and a dead kid, at least not something she’d have gone inside for. It could be a cot death, but that’s gonna be a helluva job digging up. It’d show on the kid’s medical records, but as I haven’t got a name, that’s a non-starter. You’re gonna have to give me a bit more info than that, mate.’

  ‘I under’and,’ Jason replied with a pencil between his teeth. He tugged the phone under his chin and began to mark the required drill holes with his pencil, when the cupboard slipped out of his grasp and landed on the work surface below, smashing a teapot he hadn’t had the foresight to move. Dropping his phone, he cursed loudly.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Trevor asked when he picked it up again.

  ‘I’m just trying to do two things at once.’

  ‘Multi-tasking is the key.’

  ‘Some things are not meant to be multi-tasked, unless you’re an octopus.’

  Trevor laughed. ‘Exactly what are you doing?’

  ‘Putting up a kitchen cupboard. A heavy bastard from Wickes.’

  ‘Best there is if you’re on a budget. Solid, not made of cardboard, like some crap I can think of.’

  ‘You sound like an advert. Wickes paying you?’

  Trevor snorted.

  Enough man-talk, thought Jason. ‘Listen, I appreciate what you’ve done. Could you check something else out for me?’ He could almost hear Trevor roll his eyes. ‘Does the name Mimi Stephanov mean anything to you? I’ve googled it, but nothing came up. I’m guessing she was around before Internet news was a big thing. What I need you to check for me is if there’s any link between Helen Stephens and this Mimi.’

  ‘I can’t say that it does.’ Jason detected a cautionary note in Trevor’s voice. ‘’What I can say is it’s an unusual surname, sounds Russian, and I’m not altogether comfortable with this Stephens woman having a Russian connection. That always smells of bad news to me.’

  ‘Not all Russians are Mafia. Anyway, it was only something she was reading but I got the feeling it was important to her.’ Jason quickly gave Trevor the low-down of what he’d seen in Helen’s folder. ‘A five-year-old daughter was mentioned in the headline. It was in what used to be called the Evening Standard.’

  ‘Now you’re giving me something proper to go on. Shouldn’t be too difficult to work that one. I’ll give you a buzz when I’ve finished.’

  Trevor rang off, and Jason picked up the sorry remains of the teapot and tossed them in the bin. It was a particularly nice teapot too, a traditional glazed Brown Betty, which his aunt Lucy had given him years ago when he left home, claiming that it made the best cuppa.

  ‘She’d better be worth it, whatever her story is,’ he muttered. Recalling their kiss and the way she’d responded, he thought she might be.

  And then some.

  Chapter Eleven

  Helen woke early Monday morning, annoyed that she’d have to spend the day working instead of sleuthing.

  Reluctantly she had to agree with Detective Wilcox. Her mother was murdered a long time ago, and Helen had brooded, fantasised and searched for clues in her own head. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her by planting images which had no basis in reality. She had to let it go, but just couldn’t. Not yet.

  She dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt as Letitia had told her to do, dreading the prospect of having to eventually shop for smarter clothes. She hated clothes shopping, saw it as an unnecessary expense and a waste of time too, but she wanted to fit in and would have to bite the bullet at some point.

  Charlie was in the kitchen.

  ‘How come you’re up so early?’ Helen asked, then regretted it immediately.

  ‘You
mean because I don’t have a job to go to?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘I guess I’m hoping that someone will call me about a job, and then I’ll be ready to go.’

  Helen finished her coffee and left her mug on the draining board. She should’ve eaten breakfast, but the coffee had been like sand in her mouth, and she knew from experience that food wouldn’t taste any better. It never did in the mornings.

  She turned in the doorway. ‘If you like, I can ask at work if they need someone.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like that.’ Charlie smiled, but didn’t sound hopeful.

  Arriving at the auction house, Helen walked through a large wrought-iron gate at the back. An eclectic mix of vehicles were parked in the enclosed yard, including a couple of dark green vans with the company logo, an old Ford estate, a nimble hatchback, a scooter and a bright yellow Lotus Elan, which was probably Letitia’s.

  So Letitia hadn’t been putting her in her place after all – everyone came in around the back.

  A gangly youth in a thin, light brown overcoat was smoking a cigarette by the loading bay. Pale and spotty, he wore a surly expression as if he’d got out on the wrong side of the bed, or perhaps even the wrong bed.

  ‘You need Personnel,’ he mumbled, pointing over his shoulder to a door at the back of the loading bay. ‘Oh, hell,’ he added, ‘I’m supposed to take you there.’

  He stubbed out the cigarette and led the way up a narrow staircase to one side of the loading bay, then unlocked a door with his security pass which hung from a lanyard around his neck. The door opened into a long corridor lit by flickering strip lighting where the youth pushed open another door without knocking. ‘The new girl’s here, Mrs Deakin.’

  A middle-aged woman frowned at Helen over the rim of her reading glasses, clearly resenting the rude interruption. ‘Thank you, Jim. Why don’t you come in?’ she said to Helen with a sudden smile which made her seem much more approachable. ‘We need to get a few formalities out of the way before you can start. Hope you don’t mind filling in forms?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  Mrs Deakin handed Helen some forms and carried on with her work. When Helen had finished, Mrs Deakin explained the job, confidentiality and security issues. Finally she handed her a coat like the one Jim was wearing and a padlock.

  ‘When you come out into the corridor and turn left,’ she said, ‘you’ll find a staff room. Take any locker which isn’t occupied and use the padlock. It’s unisex I’m afraid, but if you need to change your clothes, you can do it in the loo. Everyone else does.’ Removing her reading glasses, she let them dangle from her neck on a chain. ‘It’s good to see you again, Helen. You won’t remember me, of course, but I used to work with your mother.’

  Surprised, Helen turned before reaching the door. ‘I didn’t think it was common knowledge that I’m sort of related to Letitia.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t, no. Ms Walcott was quite specific about that, but she must’ve known I’d recognise you, so that’s why she told me. You have your mother’s chin.’

  Sticking out said chin, Helen approached Mrs Deakin’s desk again. ‘Did you know my mother well?’

  ‘We were friendly, the kind of friends you make when you work long hours together. I was absolutely horrified at what happened to her. Everyone was. It was so awful. I can’t begin to imagine what it was like for you. You must’ve been traumatised.’

  Clutching the coat to her chest, Helen felt her throat constrict. How could she answer this question without getting too caught up in the emotions which rose in her?

  ‘It was a pretty tough time.’

  Perhaps sensing Helen’s reluctance to talk about it, Mrs Deakin put her reading glasses back on and busied herself with some papers. ‘At least you seem to have pulled through. I’m sure having your family around was a great comfort.’

  Was this woman for real? She clearly didn’t know that Helen had more or less been shunted out of the family before her mother was even cold in her grave. She ought to put her right on that score, but perhaps it was better to wait until she knew where Mrs Deakin stood in relation to Letitia. If the woman was loyal, there’d be no point maligning her. Instead she smiled politely and left the office.

  She found the staff room easily enough. A long narrow room, it had lockers along one wall, a low bench along the other, and a window at the end with frosted glass and security bars. In front of the window stood a Formica table and a set of orange plastic chairs in a haphazard arrangement as if everyone had got up in a hurry. Helen hung up her jacket and backpack in an empty locker and put on her brown coat. As she was locking it, Jim skulked in followed by an older man, the one who’d met her in reception the week before.

  ‘This is Bill,’ said Jim listlessly, showing that at least he had some manners.

  ‘Hi,’ said Helen.

  Bald as an egg, with weathered and craggy skin as if he’d spent a lifetime outdoors squinting against the sun, Bill’s brown coat hung from a set of scraggy shoulders like a shirt on a wire coat hanger, but his hand was strong when he shook Helen’s. His face crinkled into a spider’s web of wrinkles. She recalled a ‘Bill’ from one of the newspaper clippings. If this was the same chap, he’d known her mother too.

  ‘I remember you from last week,’ he said in a deep and melodious voice. ‘Welcome on board. I said to Jim – didn’t I, Jim? – I said, “she’s all right, that one, I hope she gets the job”.’

  ‘Yeah, you did, didn’t ya?’

  ‘I hope you like it here. We’re a friendly bunch, except for old misery guts over there.’

  ‘I can be friendly.’ Jim sent him a dirty look and left the room, muttering something about ‘going for a smoke’.

  Bill took Helen on a tour of the premises. They started with the behind-the-scenes bit, as Bill called it. He showed her the storage rooms and introduced her to the Shipping Manager, who nodded briefly while shouting instructions down the telephone.

  ‘Mrs Deakin’s office you’ve seen,’ said Bill as they entered what was known as the packaging hall.

  ‘Hall’ was a rather grand word for what was really a large, square room lit by a skylight and a few strip lights. It was a bright working space, yet stuffy at the same time, and smelt of dust and pine resin from the wooden packing crates.

  Three men, dressed in coats identical to her own and white cotton gloves, were packing a large painting depicting a man on a horse with his sabre raised, set in a heavy gold frame. They gave her a cursory nod, but concentrated on their delicate task.

  ‘The Duke of Wellington,’ said Bill, ‘from the studio of Sir Thomas Lawrence. Or so the story goes. We’re sending him home to his new owner today.’

  He led Helen down another wide corridor to the auction room. Several steel trolleys, some designed to move large items, others for smaller artwork, stood against one wall. He pushed aside a pair of thick, olive-green velvet curtains, and it was as if Helen had gone through a magic portal to a different world.

  In contrast to the shabbiness of the back rooms, the auction hall glittered. Gold-painted chairs with red velvet seats were arranged in neat rows on either side of an aisle, a plush red wall-to-wall carpet covered the floor, and the room was lit by four large crystal chandeliers and a row of candle lamps on the walls. The back wall was hung with the same olive-green curtain as the one which hid the entrance to the back rooms, and in front of it stood a raised dais with a mahogany lectern and a state-of-the-art microphone. The auction hall had an air of unashamed opulence and unimagined wealth.

  Helen’s jaw fell open. She’d seen Letitia’s office, but it was nothing compared to this.

  Bill chuckled. ‘Impressive, isn’t it? Can’t blame you for being a bit overwhelmed, but just remember the old saying, “all that glitters is not gold”.’

  Helen wasn’t really listening. The place was empty at the moment, apart from a large suit-clad bloke sitting on a chair in the far corner
, and whom Bill whisperingly referred to as ‘Ms Walcott’s chauffeur’, but it didn’t take a lot of imagination to see it full of eager collectors, to hear the auctioneer’s rapid chant as he sold item after item to the highest bidders. To fantasise about the astronomical sums changing hands here.

  In India the contrasts between rich and poor had been staggering, but for the first time since she’d returned to England she realised that they existed here too. She tried to picture Charlie’s reaction, but found it difficult, perhaps because she couldn’t imagine this kind of wealth herself.

  And yet she was associated with it. That was the hardest part. One of the clan, she had her feet firmly under the table now. So why did it feel so wrong?

  ‘Wow,’ she said, for want of something more appropriate.

  ‘Come on, love, let’s go back and see if Jim’s finished his coffin nail.’

  Bill was quiet when he took her back to the staff room, and after they’d collected Jim from his illicit cigarette break, she returned with Bill to the packaging hall. She spent the rest of the day helping the men unpack crates shipped from a private collection and marking the items with sale tags.

  One oil painting caught her attention. Christ on the crucifix, it was done in brown, burnt umber, gold and sienna, with a touch of royal blue in the dress of the Virgin Mary kneeling with her hands folded in prayer. Helen guessed the age to be Renaissance, but the most remarkable feature of the painting was the light that seemed to flow from a source inside Christ himself, bathing the faces of those who beheld him. Set in a gilded frame, there was no signature, but she thought she knew who the artist was.

  ‘Rembrandt?’ she asked, a little breathlessly, as Bill placed the painting on a trolley in preparation for an auction that afternoon.

  ‘School of, I should think.’ He turned the painting over carefully with his cotton gloves to inspect the small white label at the back. ‘Yep, just like I thought.’