Call Me Star Girl

by Louise Beech

  ‘Sir, you said you don’t think Stella McKeever did it. Can you please just tell me why that is?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will. I just … I just get emotional.’ Bob pauses. ‘You don’t realise…’

  ‘What don’t I realise?’

  ‘She said all that stuff on the radio that night, but it just can’t be true.’ Bob leans forward, impassioned. ‘She wasn’t in her right bloody mind. You could tell by the way she said it all. Nothing like the calm and warm way she usually speaks.’

  PC Greatfield doesn’t look convinced. ‘Sir, reading the weather and confessing to a crime are two entirely different things.’

  ‘But I don’t think it was a confession!’

  ‘What do you think it was?’

  ‘A false confession.’ Bob sits back and exhales hard. He crosses his legs and notices the tassel on his left shoe is missing. No. These are Trish’s favourites. He suddenly feels desperately sad. Trish is quite spiritual and always sees signs in everything. Is this a good one or a bad one?

  ‘Sir, why do you think someone would confess to a murder they hadn’t committed?’

  ‘I think she was protecting someone.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible.’ Other than Bob’s name and address, PC Greatfield hasn’t written anything down yet. ‘What makes you think that’s the case?’

  ‘She was in my taxi the night it happened.’

  ‘The night she fell you mean?’

  ‘No,’ says Bob. ‘The night Victoria Valbon was murdered.’

  ‘In your taxi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘One hundred percent. It was my last-ever shift. I retired that very night. She was the last passenger I ever had.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come and report this sooner?’ asks the PC, frowning.

  Bob runs his fingers through his greying hair and shakes his head. ‘I thought about it. I did. But that was before this stupid confession. I didn’t think Stella had done anything, so there was nothing to tell until now. I thought if I came in cos I’d had her in my taxi, all upset, that I might incriminate her somehow. Ruin a young lass’s life. But now … well, now everybody thinks she killed that poor pregnant girl. And I don’t think she did, so I have to speak.’

  ‘Sir, just tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘I will. I will.’ Bob braces himself; he touches the remaining shoe tassel. ‘I might get emotional. This has been going around in my head for weeks now. I never had a daughter, you know. Me and Trish just have one son. I thought Stella could be my daughter. She was the right age. Kind of gets you teary.’ He pauses. ‘Sorry, I’ll tell you, I will. So that night … it was very late. I was about to finish. Then this girl flagged me down. Now, we’re not supposed to do that – pick up customers who haven’t booked. But she looked distraught. She was waving to me, desperately. I couldn’t leave her.’

  ‘She got into your car?’

  ‘Yes. It was about three streets away from the alley. You know, the one where … Of course, I didn’t think that at the time, only afterwards, when the news broke.’

  ‘Sir, please go on.’ Bob can tell PC Greatfield is trying to stay patient.

  ‘At first she couldn’t seem to say much. I couldn’t even get out of her where she lived, so we hadn’t pulled away yet. I didn’t recognise her right away, you see. I’ve picked her up a few times before and I’d recognised her voice then, even though she didn’t speak how she does on the show. Much faster. Less clearly. But that night she was so upset I didn’t realise straight away it was her. She was just shaking like a leaf. I asked if she was okay. She nodded her head, and then changed her mind and shook it. I said we could wait a moment and I would turn off the meter. I don’t how long we sat there. But eventually she looked at me and said, “I can’t go home yet.” I told her, okay, no rush, I would wait. And then she told me something really terrible had happened. Of course, I was thinking all sorts. Wondering what had happened to the poor lass.’

  ‘Go on, sir.’ PC Greatfield taps the pen on the form even though she still hasn’t recorded a word of his story.

  ‘She said then that she usually walked home, even at this hour. That her job kept her out until past one. That she didn’t usually take that alley – the one where they found … But that night, she said, she had been walking past there and something had happened, and now her legs were like jelly and she didn’t think she could make it back home.’

  ‘And what had happened, sir?’

  ‘She didn’t exactly tell me that.’ Bob looks apologetic.

  ‘So how can you be sure that her confession was false and that she wasn’t the murderer?’

  ‘She said that she had seen something terrible happen. She didn’t say that she had done something terrible. Can you see the difference?’ Bob pauses as though to allow the PC to answer, but she doesn’t. ‘The wording is very important I think.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says PC Greatfield. ‘But if Stella was distraught, as you say she was, she might not have been making much sense. How can you be sure what she meant at all?’

  ‘I can’t.’ Bob’s brow is damp. He wishes they would turn the heating down. He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. ‘But it isn’t just what she said…’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Cases like this are all about the evidence in the end, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’ PC Greatfield frowns.

  ‘And do you have all the evidence?’

  ‘Sir, I cannot discuss with you the ins and outs of the case. Please just stick to telling me what you know. The facts. What you witnessed. What Stella told you.’

  ‘But it isn’t just about what she told me.’ Bob knows he is starting to sound a little hysterical now and rolls the remaining shoe tassel between his fingers to stay focused. He just wants to do right by that poor girl. By both of them. Stella and Victoria. ‘As I said, Stella was hardly coherent. She said she had seen something terrible. Said she’d been walking home and had heard something and she should have just kept walking, but something made her investigate. She broke down again then and screamed that she should never have done that. She was inconsolable. She didn’t tell me any more details. She asked me to take her home. We drove off and she was sobbing. I asked if she wanted to go to a police station, because I reckoned she must have seen something awful. But she got hysterical again and said, No, no, they can never know.’

  ‘Why do you think she said that?’ PC Greatfield is the one leaning forwards now, her mouth slightly agape.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You look like you are,’ says the PC.

  ‘I think her confession was false.’

  ‘Why would she lie? Why on earth would she share such a detailed story – and it was very detailed, as I’m sure you heard – and then throw herself off a building?’

  ‘I agree that it was detailed,’ says Bob. ‘But she seems a very bright girl. She has wonderful oratory skills. I have every faith that she could weave a tale if she wanted to and make it sound like the truth.’

  ‘But why, sir? Why would she do that?’

  ‘If your mother or sister or friend had committed a crime, what would you do?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ PC Greatfield looks suitably outraged. ‘Can we stick to this case, sir?’

  ‘If it was my Trish,’ says Bob, ‘I would do anything to protect her.’

  ‘That would be a crime in itself.’

  ‘But if I knew she had acted in haste or in passion, done something because she wasn’t herself, I’d do anything to stop her being caught. I’d lie, and I’d lie well.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ demands the PC.

  ‘That Stella McKeever was lying to protect someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, that I don’t know. Isn’t that your job? I’d say it was someone she loved. Aren’t those the people we want to protect?’

  PC Greatfield closes her folder. ‘Sir, I reall
y appreciate you coming in, and this might be helpful in building an overall picture, but it really won’t make much of a difference. You’re assuming a lot based on the ramblings of a woman in great distress. A woman who was capable of suicide, and perhaps a lot more.’

  Bob shakes his head, frustrated. ‘It isn’t what she said or didn’t say the night of the murder that made me come here. No, it’s what she said on air the night she jumped.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I’m sure that has been fully analysed in the last few days.’ PC Greatfield starts to get up. ‘If there’s something there, it will have been picked up. Thank you for—’

  ‘When we got to her house that night,’ Bob says, quickly, to keep her in the room, ‘Stella fumbled in her bag to get her purse. I insisted I didn’t want paying, that the meter hadn’t been on. This made her cry for some reason. She tried to insist but I wouldn’t hear of it. As she got her bag, it got caught on the handle, and she wrenched it to get free. I watched her go into her house and pulled away.’

  The PC is standing but she doesn’t move. ‘What does this have to do with what she said on air?’

  ‘Two days ago, I gave up my taxi. Not only cos I retired, but because of all the miles on it. I’d have used her myself otherwise. Taxis have very short lives. And she – I called her Jean – was worn out after five years. When I dropped her off to be scrapped, and to pick up my new car, someone from the scrap place called later and said they had found something under the passenger seat. I knew exactly what it was as soon as they handed it to me.’

  ‘And what was it?’ PC Greatfield drops back into her seat.

  Bob slides a hand inside his jacket pocket and takes something out. He holds it to his chest a moment, fist wrapped protectively around it. Then he places it carefully on the table in front of PC Greatfield.

  She looks at it. Frowns. Moves closer. Even in this dim room, it catches the light of the fluorescent strip above them, scattering mini stars on the table surface.

  It is a delicate glass bottle with a star stopper, half full of perfume.

  And it is perfectly and beautifully intact.

  45

  ELIZABETH

  NOW

  My voice falters. I sip my coffee again, needing the sharp heat to keep me focused. To keep me from trembling as I try and tell Tom what I know. I wish he would sit on the sofa with me. I don’t like the feeling of him towering over me. When the words don’t come he speaks.

  What happened with you and Vicky that night? he asks.

  She never came out, I say eventually.

  What do you mean? Tom narrows his eyes, but it doesn’t lessen the intensity.

  It got to half-past twelve and she hadn’t appeared. I shrug. So I presumed she’d changed her mind.

  Tom looks intrigued.

  I just hoped she’d seen sense and decided not to bother, I continue. And I went home. If I had only managed to talk to her. If only she had come out, I might have been able to stop all this. She would still be alive – and so would Stella.

  I look directly at Tom again.

  I planned to go back the next night…

  And did you? he asks.

  I study Tom. I was going to, but I fell asleep in my chair, woke at one-thirty and thought it was too late. And it was, wasn’t it? She was murdered.

  Tom says that I’m right about one thing – that Vicky must have seen sense and decided not to bother because she never came here.

  I think she was still intending to come to you, I say. Something stopped her coming the night I waited. But she must have gone the next night. If we believe what Stella said in her confession.

  Tom frowns. What do you mean ‘if we believe’. You think Stella lied?

  Yes, I say. I do.

  And why the hell would she do that? he demands.

  Because—

  At that moment, Stephen Sainty’s voice fills the room. We turn to look at the radio. It’s the news on the hour, and Stella is still the hot topic. He talks about her first; his usually smooth voice is more ragged, and I sense something big coming. He says that someone has come forward with further evidence on the Victoria Valbon murder enquiry. Evidence that suggests Stella McKeever may not have disclosed the full truth in her live radio confession a week ago.

  Evidence?

  I look at Tom, but he turns away.

  Then Stella’s voice comes out of the speakers, so clear and full of life that it’s as though she is in the room with us.

  This really is my final show now. These are my last words to you. I’ve been playing your lives for five years. Tonight, it was mine. So … I guess this is goodbye.

  Tom looks distraught. He now drops onto the arm of the sofa, wraps his arms about his body, and shivers.

  It’s just hearing her voice, he says.

  I understand, I say softly. Then after a moment I ask, Are you sure that’s all it is?

  Yes. His voice is a croak. I miss her.

  What do you think the new evidence is? I watch for his reaction.

  How would I know? Could be anything. Probably some crank! Everyone wants a piece of the action. To be famous. To get in the papers. They’ll do and say anything. Do you know how many calls I’ve had?

  Me, too, I admit.

  It’s been endless. I’ve had journalists at the door, some pretending to deliver flowers just to speak to me. I’ve changed my home phone number and I rarely look at my mobile any more. This is the region’s biggest story in decades. In a headline in one of the national newspapers they said there was a Star Girl film in the pipeline because of the trending hashtag and the newsworthy drama of the story. Already. They say such tasteless things just a week after a young woman died by suicide. A month after another was killed in an alley.

  And I hate that they call Stella ‘Star Girl’.

  It seems cruel somehow. I meant it affectionately when I said it the day we were reunited, but now it’s used as a taunt.

  Stephen Sainty doesn’t strike me as a sensationalist, I say to Tom. Stella respected him. She said all news is usually old anyway, so they must have really checked out this evidence before releasing the info.

  He just reports what he’s given. Tom sounds exhausted now. He won’t know if what he’s told is true.

  I sip my coffee. It has gone cold. Stephen Sainty moves on to other, lesser news. His voice is not as intense. I suggest again to Tom that I think Stella lied that night; he wearily asks me why she would do that.

  To protect someone, I say.

  He glares at me.

  I tell Tom how her voice changed when she talked about him. How her face flushed. How her eyes lit up. His eyes mist at these words, and he quickly looks away to hide it. I tell him that I know that feeling. I know the things we will do when someone affects us that way. I tell him I left Stella because someone made me feel like that. That now I have to live with the guilt of abandoning a child because I loved a man that much.

  Stella wasn’t you, says Tom. She would never have left a child.

  No, I cry. And she would never have killed one either.

  Tom stands again as though regaining his power and demands that I say what I came here to say and then leave. I stand too. I’m not afraid now. There might be evidence on my side.

  I think Stella was protecting the person who really killed Vicky, I say. Maybe it was you she was protecting.

  Tom moves a little closer to me, but I don’t back down.

  Me? What? I didn’t commit that crime!

  No, I mean protecting you from the truth.

  Tom is right in front of me, his eyes bright now. Maybe she was trying to make you think it was me as a double bluff, just so you didn’t have to think your own daughter was a killer.

  I’m briefly thrown. My mind works overtime.

  She didn’t say anything that night to suggest that it was you, I say, without taking my eyes off Tom. She did her absolute best to make us think it was her. But it’s like she tried too hard or something. Bad liars always
overstate a story.

  Tom says that Stella wasn’t a liar.

  I say that she wasn’t a killer.

  Have I even said I think it’s you? I ask him.

  You haven’t spelled it out, he says. But we both know you mean me. Who else did she love enough to protect? Aside from you.

  I realise that it might only be me who really thinks it wasn’t Stella. The world seems so happy to take her words as absolute truth and then sensationalise the story. Or at least it was that way. Stephen Sainty said someone has come forward with new evidence to suggest the confession wasn’t all it seemed. Will this witness shed new light on things? People like to see the worst in others. It will take a lot for them to think it wasn’t Stella after all the media attention.

  I can’t prove anything right now. I only have a mother’s instinct – belated, I know – and the need to be Stella’s voice now she can’t.

  I guess I was hoping you…

  What? asks Tom.

  …might be honest with me.

  I am being.

  He doesn’t sound it.

  I wouldn’t judge you, I say.

  You did live with a murderer, I suppose, he says.

  I ignore the comment, though it is a fair one. Who am I to judge? The thing is, I’m not judging anyone. I just don’t want the wrong person to be blamed for a crime.

  And I think my daughter did, too, for the last three weeks of her life, I say.

  Tom shakes his head slowly.

  On the radio, they play ‘Starboy’ by The Weeknd, and I realise that’s who Tom could be. Should he be the one in all the headlines? Did he kill Vicky with the star perfume, so it would look like Stella had done it? No, I don’t think he wanted anyone to think it was her. I only think she wanted us to think it was her.

  What are you going to do? asks Tom, calmly.

  Nothing, I say. If you did it, I can’t prove it, can I? I know that I didn’t do it, and I don’t believe Stella did. Who else has a motive? There isn’t anyone. Shall I tell you what I think happened?

  Tom tells me I have a hell of an imagination.

  Then he sits back down on the sofa and tells me to go ahead.