‘Mm, maybe.’
The next time I saw her I did my usual and ignored Greg’s advice.
‘So, how are your parents?’ I asked her. ‘Are they well?’
‘They’ve moved back to France. We don’t keep in touch.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ Digging any further felt like prying, but I couldn’t stop myself. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but you don’t appear to be too anxious to get a job? Are you okay for money?’ As I said the words I felt as though I’d overstepped the mark. Greg was right, it was none of my business.
‘I’ve got an interview at the new boutique in Queen’s Road. It’s tomorrow, you can help me choose what to wear, if you like?’
‘Yes, I’d love to,’ I said. I wondered if she would have told me if I hadn’t asked. Perhaps I’d have walked in one day and found her behind the shop counter.
It was the first time she’d invited me into their flat. She popped her head into the studio where Joel was serving a customer. ‘Is it okay if I take Janie upstairs? She’s going to help me choose something for the interview.’
‘Good idea. Apologies in advance for the mess, we have too much fun to bother about housework, don’t we, gorgeous?’ he said, winking at Zara. ‘Go for something sexy, that’s bound to get you the job. That little black number, the one I bought you last week, it makes you look real cute.’
‘He’s smitten, isn’t he?’ I said, following her up the narrow staircase.
‘I can’t believe how lucky I am to have found him, Janie, he’s everything I could wish for. Generous, kind, clever, he could have anyone.’
‘From where I’m standing, I would say he’s lucky too. You’re a well-matched pair. Now, what’s all this about a mess?’
I don’t know what I expected to see as we walked into the flat. Perhaps I’d imagined tasteful black and white prints covering the walls, psychedelic colours, modern, minimal furniture. Instead there was nothing groovy about the two small rooms, nothing to reflect the talented photographer and his fashion-conscious girlfriend. The living room had a corner kitchenette with two gas rings and a small sink, filled with dirty cups and a couple of pans. I couldn’t tell if the cupboard doors were supposed to be pale yellow, or if they were discoloured with smoke and grease. A small two-seater sofa was pushed up against one wall with a patchwork blanket thrown over it, which partly hid its stained and threadbare arms. There was a little folded table, which I guessed they used for mealtimes and two wooden chairs, positioned beside a half-empty bookshelf.
‘Cup of tea?’ Zara asked me, as she poured herself a glass of water.
‘Er, no, you’re okay. Shall we go through your wardrobe then? Find you the perfect outfit?’
I followed her into the bedroom. The curtains were pulled closed, making the room dark and airless. Once she opened them it made little difference to the murky light and musty smell. The bed was flanked by two old-fashioned wardrobes, and on one side was a small chair, with what appeared to be several pairs of Joel’s trousers and various shirts thrown across it.
‘This is mine,’ she said, revealing a half-empty wardrobe. She slid the hangars across the rail. ‘There’s this black dress that Joel got me, or if not, how about this black one, the neckline might be better for an interview? Or this grey one? What do you think?’
Zara’s knowledge of French fashion intrigued all of us in our clique of school friends. She could even make the school uniform appear chic. Knowing she had a French mother created a romantic air about her and her subdued nature only added to the mystery. The girls at school joked that Zara could wear a paper bag and still be stylish and her beauty hadn’t faded, but it seemed her confidence had. She could carry off the boldest of pinks, the most startling yellow, but now it was as though she wanted to blend into the background with blacks and greys.
‘Try this?’ I suggested, handing her a black dress with white edging around the neck. ‘What jewellery do you have? I can just see it, with loads of bright coloured beads and big, bold earrings. You can borrow some of mine, if you like?’
She ferreted around in one of the chest of drawers and by the time we’d finished she looked stunning.
‘Take a look at yourself, you’ll walk into the job, no problem. Remember to smile.’ When we were inside the flat there was an uncertainty about Zara, she was no longer the girl who jigged around to Sgt Pepper and posed like Twiggy. My laughing, colourful friend had become monochrome.
She got the job in the Q boutique and life appeared to be taking an upward turn for Zara, but just a short time later her world fell apart.
Chapter 3
‘The moment has come,’ said Poirot thoughtfully, ‘and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No-one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
It was pure chance that resulted in me hearing about Joel’s accident within hours of it happening. I’d arranged to meet Zara that morning. She was going to help me choose an outfit for a wedding Greg and I had been invited to. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go, but it was the daughter of one of Greg’s regular customers who was getting wed. Greg was looking forward to it and I felt an obligation. Coincidentally, Joel was to be the wedding photographer.
Zara was the perfect person to clothes shop with. I told her I was completely in her hands, as long as the outfit was within my budget. The budget, of course, presented the ultimate challenge as it needed to stretch to a bag and shoes, but at least I didn’t need a hat.
We’d agreed to meet at the café on the Pier at 11am. There was no sign of Zara when I arrived. I got myself an orange juice and sat at one of the tables by the window so I could spot her arriving. After half an hour she was still not in evidence, so I paid for my drink and left. What little I knew of Zara’s nature made me doubt she would have forgotten me, or let me down by not turning up. Without any other means of contacting her, I decided to call round to the flat. Perhaps she’d been laid low with a bug of some kind.
The entrance to Joel’s flat was to the side of the shop, down a passageway and up an iron staircase. As I approached I spotted a police car parked in the street, a little way from the studio. Two policemen were sitting in the front, deep in conversation and a policewoman was just getting into the back.
I climbed the staircase and knocked rather timidly at first, half worried Zara might be asleep. When there was no response I knocked a little louder and a few seconds later the door opened. As soon as I saw her I realised something was dreadfully wrong. She was wearing a cotton wrap, pulled clumsily around her, covering what I imagined were her nightclothes. She had bare feet and her hair hung unbrushed across her face. She was so far removed from the immaculately presented Zara I was used to seeing that I gasped. She said nothing, but stood back from the door, allowing me to enter the dimly lit hallway.
‘Bless you, Zara, you don’t look well at all. I’m so sorry, I’ve got you out of bed, haven’t I? It was just when you didn’t turn up…’ I paused, wondering whether in her poorly state she had forgotten we were going to meet. ‘You were going to help me choose some clothes for that silly wedding. But hey, it really doesn’t matter at all. Get yourself back to bed and I’ll make you a hot drink. Would you like one?’
She remained motionless in front of me. It was as though she hadn’t heard a word I’d said and was barely aware of me standing there. I took her hand and, as gently as I could, I led her towards the bedroom. She followed me, unquestioning and once we were in the room I put my hand on her shoulder and eased her down to sit on the bed. A bed that strangely was still made, neat and tidy.
It was difficult to know whether to leave her to go to the kitchen, or if it was better to forget the drink and persuade her to get into bed. I decided on the latter. Pulling back the bedcover I gestured to her to lay down. At that point she started to scream. The sound was chilling, as though some part of her was breaking. I clasped my arms around her tightly
and held her close to me, not knowing what else to do. I expected a banging on the door at any moment, a neighbour wondering who was being murdered. After a few seconds she stopped as suddenly as she’d started.
She was sitting beside me now and I sensed she felt a little calmer. And then she spoke.
‘Joel is dead,’ she said, in a voice devoid of emotion. Then she laid on the bed and pulled the covers over her. ‘I need to sleep now,’ she said. ‘Stay with me.’ It was a statement, not a question.
I stayed, of course, stroking her head, trying to ease her into a restful slumber. As I watched her, a hundred questions tumbled around in my mind. Had she taken a drug of some kind? Friends of friends had been experimenting with LSD. Tales of hallucinations and weird trips were bandied about when Greg and I were down the pub. Yet I couldn’t imagine Zara being stupid enough to try anything so dangerous.
She had a dark side to her, thoughts she would never share with me. Occasionally a shadow would pass across her eyes and she would lose attention for a while. It was that secret side of Zara that had always intrigued me, if I was honest. I’d never known anyone quite like her. All my other schoolfriends were much like me, interested in the fun side of life, but clueless when it came to anything important like politics or world affairs. Zara was different. She got into a row once about the Cuba crisis. I came home from school and looked for Cuba on an atlas. But politics was one thing; I still couldn’t see her dabbling with hard drugs.
Zara fell into a fitful sleep for an hour or so. I sat in a wicker chair beside the bed, watching her as she twisted and turned. A few times she called out in her sleep, but her words were incomprehensible and as I stroked her head she settled again. When she woke she looked surprised to see me sitting beside her.
‘Janie,’ she said. ‘I’ve been asleep.’ It was as if she wanted to apologise for dozing off.
‘Let me get you a hot drink. Stay in bed, I’ll bring it to you.’
She settled back down, with her head on the pillow.
‘The police,’ she said, pausing, as though completing a sentence was beyond her.
‘Ssh, try to rest. We don’t need to talk now. I’ll stay with you.’
She nodded and closed her eyes again. Greg wouldn’t be worried about me for several hours. He knew well enough that a shopping trip with Zara would last a while.
It was late afternoon before she finally repeated the words of the police officer. She didn’t add to them, just said them starkly, like lines in a play she hadn’t rehearsed. All she’d been told was that Joel had been killed in a car accident and the driver hadn’t reported the crash. A hit and run. A phrase that runs off the tongue and takes no account of the devastation that follows in its wake.
As she dozed again I moved quietly around the room and gathered a few things for her. There was a tapestry bag stuffed into the bottom of her wardrobe, so I pulled it out and put it on the chair. Then I just needed to choose some outfits from among the skirts and dresses we’d looked at together only a few weeks before. One of the doors of Joel’s wardrobe was partly open and as I tugged at the wooden handle it came off in my hand. I tried to push it back in place, but giving up, I left it on the bedside table.
I checked the cupboard in the kitchenette for any food that might need using up, or throwing away, but apart from a few tins and two packets of cream crackers, that was it. The little fridge was bare as well, just half a pint of milk and some dried-up cheese. I poured the milk down the sink and threw away the cheese, gathering the rubbish bag together and putting it next to the front door, so I could take it with me when we left.
As I straightened the cushions on the settee, I noticed something stuffed down the back of the seat. I pushed my hand down and retrieved a small diary. Determined not to breach her privacy, I left the diary unopened and put it into the top of the bag.
Once I had all I thought she might need, I scanned the room again to see if I had forgotten anything. At that point I remembered her makeup. I hadn’t come across anything in the bedroom drawers, so I guessed she must have kept it all in the bathroom cabinet. Her makeup store was minimal; just one lipstick, a powder compact and mascara and a couple of eyeshadows. When Zara and I had become reacquainted, the heavily made-up trends of our teenage years had been replaced with a bare-faced look. She could carry it off better than most; the merest hint of mascara and a pale lipstick did nothing to detract from her beauty.
Once Zara woke I helped her to wash and dress. She was childlike in her movements. I asked her to hold out her arms as I slid a tee-shirt over her head. Ferreting through the pile of trousers laying over the back of the chair I chose a black cotton pair, which looked more like Zara’s than Joel’s. She followed me meekly around the flat while I checked everything was switched off. I wrote a note cancelling the milk, rolled it up and popped it inside one of the milk bottles, before putting it outside the front door. I told her simply she was coming to stay at my house for as long as she wanted and I wouldn’t take any argument. She said nothing, but her acquiescence was evident from her manner.
Greg opened the door to us when we got back to my house. He grinned, ready to launch into some teasing comment about how much we’d bought, how much I’d spent. Before he said anything, I shook my head and motioned to the bag I’d packed for Zara while she slept. As we walked through our little hallway I whispered to him, ‘Put the kettle on? I’m just taking Zara upstairs.’ He raised an eyebrow as a silent question. I shook my head in answer and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’
Once I’d settled her into our spare bedroom and persuaded her to rest, I went down to the kitchen to tell Greg about the bizarre events of the day. I had been in action mode, not allowing myself time to think about the tragedy. Now, recounting the news of Joel’s death, it felt chillingly real. I could only imagine how it must be for Zara.
‘She’ll feel as though she’s fallen into her worst nightmare,’ I told Greg, as he held my hand. ‘We’re going to need to be strong for her to help her through. I’m sure she hasn’t taken it in yet. Who knows how she’ll be when it hits her. How can it have happened? Why would someone just leave him lying there?’ I could feel my face flushing with rage.
‘Calm down. I know it’s dreadful, but these things happen. Maybe the driver didn’t realise…’
‘Are you crazy? You don’t hit someone and not know it. More likely the driver was drunk, or speeding, or both.’
‘Don’t get mad at me, I’m just saying…’
‘What? What are you saying? That it’s just one of those things? A young man gets killed and no-one is accountable?’
It was at Greg’s suggestion I walked down to the phone box at the end of our road and called the police. I told the duty officer that Zara was a friend and she’d been given some bad news but didn’t feel able to talk about it. He gave me the bare bones, no more than the brief report that appeared on the television that evening.
Joel Stewart, 26-year-old photographer from Sussex, was knocked down by a vehicle today and did not survive his injuries. The driver did not stop to report the incident. Would anyone who might have information relating to the incident, please contact Tidehaven Police Station.
I told the police Zara would be staying with us, giving them our name and address. I waited for them to turn up that evening and tell us they had found the driver, that he had come into the police station full of guilt. I imagined how Zara might get some comfort that at least someone would be charged and made accountable for this thoughtless event that had ended Joel’s life. I didn’t expect what did happen, which was absolutely nothing.
Chapter 4
‘Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?’ He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy.
‘My dear Poirot,’ I expostulated, ‘I never thought it would interest you. I didn’t know it was of any importance.’
‘Importance? It is of the first importance!’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
Over the following weeks Zara
spent much of her time sitting in our kitchen, staring out of the little window that overlooked the back yard. When she wasn’t there she would be in her bedroom, or at the kitchen table, with her head down on her hands. The fundamental depth of her grief was frightening to watch. Sometimes I came home from food shopping to find her curled up on the sofa with one of my jackets covering her, as if the thought of wakefulness was too much to bear. Some people find sleep itself a fearful thing after a trauma, bringing with it dark dreams from which there is no escape, except to wake up into the living nightmare. But for Zara it seemed that sleep was her only solace. There was no medication involved either, on prescription or out of a bottle.
Each day Greg and I waited for her to go to bed in the evening before we turned on the television, hoping for more information about the accident. After the initial news report there was little coverage.
The local paper presented a double-page spread, focusing on Joel’s photography. Alongside the photos they printed letters from grateful customers. The editorial suggested he had the potential to be internationally famous, such was the calibre of his work.
For a couple of weeks there were articles about the tragedy of hit-and-run accidents, sparking letters to the editor over the lack of speed restrictions. One letter-writer complained it was a foolhardy idea that young people should be allowed to drive, when they were all probably smoking pot and drinking alcohol. The assumption being made was that the driver was young and careless.
Joel’s parents travelled down from Scotland as soon as they learned about the accident and made all the arrangements for the funeral. They tried to involve Zara, but she was in no fit state. After the short ceremony in the little chapel, his father stood beside the grave, looking as though his heart had broken and his mother wept, clinging onto her husband’s arm. After the burial they walked across to shake Zara’s hand. She had been standing with us on the opposite side of the grave. She bowed her head and said nothing.
The Tapestry Bag: A gripping mystery, full of twists and turns (A Janie Juke mystery Book 1) Page 2