Call Me Star Girl

by Louise Beech

  Tell me what you think happened, he says.

  46

  BOB FRACKLEHURST

  NOW

  PC Greatfield’s finger hovers near the star-shaped stopper of the perfume bottle, as though to make sure it isn’t an apparition. She looks at Bob, both confusion and understanding apparent in her eyes.

  He nods. ‘If Stella was telling the truth, and she killed Victoria Valbon with the broken perfume bottle the way she described, how could that very bottle have been in my car and now here in one piece?’

  PC Greatfield looks like a fish blowing bubbles.

  ‘It must have fallen out of her bag that night,’ says Bob. ‘After she was in the alley, clearly witnessing something but not committing the crime she confessed to. I imagine she was heartbroken to have lost it.’

  ‘I’ll have to take this from you,’ says the PC, resuming her brisk professional mask. ‘This is evidence. You’ll have to be fingerprinted, too, and you’ll have to come back in tomorrow to speak to the officer in charge of the case.’

  Bob nods. ‘That’s fine. I can do that.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell them your full story again.’

  ‘I understand. Anything to help Stella. I can’t bear to read all the awful things being said about her, especially when it probably isn’t true. All those hashtag thingies they do these days. Those awful, blurry pictures of the alley that got released to the press. And that heartbreaking one of her final moment on the roof. She looks so … desperate. She only died a week ago. They should have some respect. My Trish even saw some pathetic article about her father being that murderer Harland Grey. The things the media will latch onto! Her poor family – they must be going through hell.’ Bob stands and puts his coat back on. ‘The weird thing is, the day before the murder I had Stella’s mum in my taxi.’

  ‘Did you?’ PC Greatfield stands too. ‘How do you know it was her?’

  ‘It was during the day. I picked her up from a café in town. She said that Stella McKeever was her daughter. And I thought, wow, what a small world. Turns out it was even smaller. Then Stella got in my cab the very next night.’

  PC Greatfield heads to the door and Bob follows. He looks back.

  ‘When she talked about her daughter,’ he says, ‘she sounded so proud. She must be so sad that all this has happened. I hope my bringing the perfume bottle in will give her some peace. And reveal the truth.’

  ‘I’m sure it will, sir.’

  Bob looks back as they leave the room. The cut-glass bottle still sits on the table, surrounded by tiny reflected stars. He hasn’t heard Stella’s full radio confession that night, only the edited version played in bits since, here and there. He’s heard a snippet in which she says the perfume had belonged to her mother, and also to her father, and he realises that to lie and say she had used it as a murder weapon in a brutal attack must have been traumatic. Whoever she had wanted to protect with her lie, she must have loved more than anything in the world.

  ‘Are you leaving that there?’ Bob asks the PC.

  ‘It’ll need to be bagged as evidence,’ she explains. ‘I don’t want to touch it without my gloves.’

  Bob nods, feeling sad that Stella’s cherished treasure will be scrutinised by cold hands and eyes. But if it cleared her name, then it would be worth it.

  ‘Will you give it back to her mum, do you think?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m sure it will go back to her family eventually.’

  They arrive back at the desk, where the impossibly young officer is speaking on the phone.

  ‘The officer in charge of the Valbon case will contact you to arrange a further interview.’ PC Greatfield holds to her chest the folder with only the facts of his name, date of birth and address recorded in it. ‘We really appreciate you coming forward, Mr Fracklehurst.’

  Bob leaves the police station. Outside, the October day is bright, the edges of the crisp leaves as sharp as cut glass. As he kicks his way through them on the walk to his new car, he notices the tassel on his right shoe is missing now. He bends down and touches the place where it once was. What would Trish think of it? What sign would she say the universe was giving him?

  Everything is equal now, thinks Bob.

  Maybe that’s it. Two tassels missing, and two young women found. Maybe now the truth will give both Victoria and Stella the peace they deserve. He remembers the ‘Star Girl’ headline in one of the big papers yesterday, a name they had stolen from one of those hashtag things. Trish has said she hoped both girls were up there, with the stars, where they belonged.

  Bob hopes so too.

  47

  ELIZABETH

  NOW

  I tell Tom what I think happened; how I think Vicky went to his house the night she died.

  I tell him I think he went for a walk with her because he didn’t want Stella to come home and catch them together. I insist that I know he loved Stella and that I think he didn’t want her to know that an ex-fiancée was pregnant with his child. He didn’t want anything to hurt her.

  I say that I don’t know how it happened, but I think Vicky said she wanted him back. I think they argued, and she begged him. In desperation, said she would tell Stella and ruin what they had. And Tom couldn’t let that happen. I said I didn’t know how, but Tom killed her. In passion. To shut her up. To keep Stella.

  For love.

  I tell Tom I think Stella was in that alley and saw it all. That that’s how she knew so many details. She just changed the story. Made herself the murderer. She didn’t want Tom to go to prison. I can understand this. I know this pain. I remind Tom that we know now, from the papers, that the man who took those grainy photos that night had gone to Stella with them. I tell Tom I think she panicked when she saw them. Wanted to stop Tom being arrested.

  She did the ultimate thing anyone in love would do – she took the blame for it.

  My loving Stella.

  I end by saying softly that I think that’s what really happened.

  Tom says nothing. He won’t look at me, and hunches forwards on the red sofa.

  I’m not going to do anything, I say.

  What could you do? he asks, holding my gaze.

  I think it’s up to you to do something.

  Tom says nothing.

  We all do crazy things for love. I pause. And then I think we have to pay for that. I’ll pay forever. The night Stella jumped from that roof began the day I left her almost fifteen years ago. My actions started this whole thing. Made her what she is. I have to live with that. But you have to live with what you have done. You killed a baby, Tom. Your own child. I have been a terrible mother, but you are a terrible father too. So, let’s put it right. Let’s do right by my daughter and your baby.

  And I realise.

  I realise as I study Tom what I am prepared to do. Perhaps I knew when I set off to come here. Perhaps I knew yesterday. I did wonder when I arrived earlier whether to tell Tom what I know first, or what I think first, and if I then should ask what he knows.

  But I hadn’t realised what I want to do.

  On the radio, there is a song I can’t remember the title of, one I know Stella loved, because she played it all the time.

  Tom, I say gently. I think Stella wanted to protect you. I feel in my heart that she did not kill Vicky. And I don’t want the world to think the wrong thing about my daughter. It isn’t right. She was a good person. Strong, wilful, and good. Maybe this new evidence will help prove her innocence. If Stella loved you enough to cover for you, I can honour that. I’m prepared to do as she wished.

  Tom very slowly says that he did not kill Vicky.

  I tell him just as slowly that he needs to tell me the truth.

  He says nothing.

  I need to know every detail, I say. Then I’ll go to the police and say it was me.

  Don’t be ridiculous. Tom attempts a laugh, but it is more of a cough.

  I will, I insist.

  The police won’t simply take your word for it. Tom shakes h
is head, serious now. They won’t just listen to every crank who comes forward. They’ll be looking for more than that – actual proof. Blood. Fingerprints. A weapon.

  What if that’s the new evidence? I say.

  Stella’s confession is still the main evidence.

  False confession, I hiss. Listen, they have more or less said in the papers that those grainy pictures taken in the alley prove nothing – they can’t tell who the killer is in them. Stella’s confession is all they’ve been able to use so far. But now they say that someone has evidence to suggest she didn’t do it. What if they really do? They’ll come to you, Tom.

  Tom still says nothing.

  I failed Stella miserably in life, I say. Now I’ll honour her. If she wanted to cover for you, then fine. I’ll do it too.

  I move closer to Tom and scream that I simply won’t have her going down in history as a killer when she isn’t. I beg him to give me the details of what happened that night.

  I need to know! How did you do it? How can I do right by Stella if you don’t tell me? Where is the star perfume?

  What? Tom is caught off guard.

  That perfume must be somewhere in this house. She must have lied about it being smashed. So where is it?

  Not here! yells Tom.

  You did it. Tell me you did it.

  Tom stands and says in a slow voice that he did not kill Vicky.

  What did you use? How did you do it?

  Tom shakes his head.

  I don’t believe you, I say. You even said that night that you didn’t believe Stella. You yelled it up to her on that damned roof! You screamed at her to retract what she was saying! You said she was lying. Because you knew she couldn’t have done it! You knew as well as I did!

  You should go, Tom says.

  I stand, try to slow my breathing, calm my heart.

  How can I help you if you won’t tell me? I plead. Do you really want Stella to be remembered for something she didn’t do?

  Tom walks to the front door. I have no choice but to follow him. He opens it and stands aside, without catching my eye. Some golden leaves have fallen onto the very tidy grass. I want to sweep them up. Keep Stella neat. Keep her world how she would want it to be.

  I step outside.

  I’ll go anyway, I say to Tom. To the police, I mean. I pause. Tom, did you really and truly love Stella?

  He has begun closing the door after me, but he stops. I can only see half of his face. Then he says that he did, more than anyone he ever has or ever will again.

  And that, he adds, is why I want to let Stella have the final word.

  He shuts the door. I stare at it, speechless.

  After a moment, I walk back down the path and close the gate after me, still not happy about the leaves messing up Stella’s patch of grass. I look back, expecting Tom to be watching me from the window. But he isn’t there. I glance at the upstairs one and for a moment I think Stella is there. But the clouds move – it was just the sky I saw reflected.

  I realise that’s where she is now.

  I look up at the sky.

  I have finally done my best by Stella. Can she see that I have? Does she see me here, leaving Tom’s home? Can she see what I am prepared to do for her? Does she know that I am sorry about everything? That I love her now and it’s just too late.

  Let me make it right, I whisper.

  I head towards the police station.

  Elizabeth.

  I turn. Tom has opened the door again. I go back along their path. I stand in front of him. He crumbles. Collapses against me. I catch him. Hold him. He sobs.

  Should I come back inside? I ask him.

  I do.

  48

  BOB FRACKLEHURST

  NOW

  Three days after his visit to the police station, Bob Fracklehurst drives around the town centre. He often does this. He tells Trish that he is going to his pal Eddie’s house or to see the guys in the taxi office again, but he’s sure she knows the truth. That he misses the job. Misses the journey. He has arrived where most of us want to be: a lovely home, a family, a good pension, retirement. But his hands miss the wheel, his eyes miss the road, and his heart misses the passengers.

  After circling the centre and taking the roads often travelled – those lined with pubs – Bob finds himself in the layby near the alley where Victoria Valbon died. He leaves the engine running and the radio low, ready for the news on the hour. Then he glances at the now less leafy entrance to that dark passage. Bunches of flowers, large and small, have been placed there. Some have long since died while others look to have been left more recently, their colours still proud in the autumn sun. Like flags in the hedge, fading notes of condolence flutter in the breeze.

  Bob hasn’t stopped thinking about Stella McKeever. About the star perfume. He told Trish about his initial trip to the station the day after he went; about the night Stella was in his taxi; about how he had had to make sure the police had the bottle because he was sure the poor girl was totally innocent.

  Bob had to go back and tell the whole story again to the officer in charge of the case, and this time Trish went with him. Since then they have both been following the news.

  It’s noon. Bob turns up the volume on the radio. After a moment, Stephen Sainty’s rich voice fills the car. He lists the upcoming headlines, the first of which is that there is more news on the Victoria Valbon murder inquiry. It’s always the first item; always the story people want. Bob holds his breath.

  ‘Police have further reason to believe that Stella McKeever might not have been responsible for the murder of Victoria Valbon more than a month ago. The WLCR presenter admitted live on air to killing the local pregnant woman, before committing suicide by jumping from the radio-station roof. Last week a witness supplied evidence that suggested Stella might have a made false confession. This was revealed to be an intact perfume bottle, the very one that Stella claimed to have used – broken – to kill Valbon.’

  Relief saturates Stephen’s words. Bob can only imagine how hard it must be to have to report the news when it’s about former colleague, and when it’s so tragic. Stephen was interviewed in one of the local papers yesterday; he said he didn’t think Stella was capable of hurting, let alone killing, anyone.

  ‘At a press conference this morning,’ Stephen continues, ‘police announced that another witness has handed in key evidence that was found just half a mile from the Valbon crime scene, which police are now analysing. When asked if this item belonged to someone other than Stella McKeever, police declined to answer, saying further tests were needed.’

  Bob wonders what the item is, where it was found. He hopes it can clear Stella’s name once and for all. He hasn’t slept properly for weeks and can’t imagine what her family must be going through. Victoria’s poor family, too.

  Stephen continues: ‘Police also told members of the press that someone has come forward saying they are responsible for Victoria’s death. Police cannot reveal any names until they investigate further. All they can tell us is that this person was very close to Stella, and they have said that Stella was protecting them when she lied on the roof.’

  Bob speaks aloud to himself. ‘Well, thank God.’

  Stephen moves on to another story, his voice audibly less intense when revealing that the fire in a local nightclub was caused by faulty wiring. Bob glances back at the flowers by the alley. Now the truth can emerge fully. Peace for poor Victoria, and peace for Stella.

  Bob’s mobile phone lights up. It’s a message from Trish, asking if he’s heard the news about the Valbon/McKeever story.

  Bob messages back that yes, he has.

  Trish asks if he has seen the stuff on Twitter.

  He shakes his head. She should know better. He doesn’t go on any social-media sites. What they post on there is all scandal and lies and nonsense to him. Anyone can say anything. No filter, no care for who they hurt. With what he has often heard in his taxi over the years, Bob has never needed to seek gossip onlin
e.

  Trish messages him again. It was a key.

  What was? he types.

  That got handed in. Photos all over Twitter. Has a T and an S on it. Found in a skip not far away from the alley. They reckon S for Stella and T for Tom – her boyfriend.

  Bob frowns.

  Could be any key, he types.

  The phone flashes after a moment. Someone from local police has shared it too.

  If so, it must be Tom’s key, Bob types slowly.

  There is a pause. Then his phone flashes again.

  Or Stella’s, says Trish.

  Bob shakes his head.

  Stella didn’t do it, he types firmly. It must be Tom’s. Talk when I get in.

  So, it’s a key. A key might be the key. But what harm could a key do to anyone? They said they still have to analyse it. Could be nothing. Those initials could be mere coincidence. Trish, of course, always argues that there’s no such thing. Coincidence, she says again and again, is the universe telling you something. Whatever the universe, the evidence or Twitter might be saying, Bob’s gut tells him – and has all along – that Stella did not kill Victoria.

  He turns off the radio. Drinks in the silence. Wonders who has come forward. Stephen didn’t say whether it was a man or woman. Only that they are close to Stella. In the many crime shows he and Trish watch, the detectives always say look close to home before you look anywhere else.

  Home is where it all starts.

  Bob starts up the car. He might go home and see if Trish wants to go out for lunch. He might just drive around one more time. He looks back at the alley. A young girl is reading the notes in the hedge, a small bunch of pink carnations clutched in one hand. When she’s finished reading, she places the flowers carefully next to the many others. Then she walks up the street without looking back.

  Bob drives home.

  49

  ELIZABETH

  NOW