The Girl in the Gallery

by Alice Castle

  ‘Right. So that’s Year 9, I’m thinking?’

  Maria nodded, but seemed to hesitate. Katie compressed her lips and thought. Though Charlie hadn’t reached such dizzy heights yet, Katie had already scoped out the years ahead. Teenage boys had the reputation of being charmless and monosyllabic. It was hard to imagine any son of Michael’s becoming such a tiresome one-way street. Michael was sociability personified, endlessly interested in other people. But she’d heard and seen enough to know it was probably inevitable, at some point, that the cheery, chirpy Charlie she knew would turn into a mumbling beanpole that she’d probably hardly recognise.

  She could deal with that. She was even braced for him towering over her. Michael was over six feet tall and Charlie was already taller than Ben, though maybe that wasn’t saying much, as Beth, bless her, was so teeny. Had her late husband, James, been tall, though? Katie had no idea and realised she was drifting away from the issue at hand. Teenage girls. They were, basically, from all she’d seen and heard, a mountain of trouble.

  ‘Is she having problems, Maria? With the girls in her class?’ Katie’s tone couldn’t have been gentler. She realised she was being intrusive – she hardly knew Maria, and the woman might well not want to talk about this at all. But Maria seemed to be on the brink of a revelation. Katie couldn’t take it as a massive compliment to her proffered hand of friendship. Poor Maria hardly knew anyone in the country. She didn’t have a lot of candidates for the position of confidant.

  Oh, there would have been Belinda MacKenzie, of course. She always chummed up with the newbies, looking for fresh recruits to her band of followers. But Katie wasn’t at all surprised that Maria had thought twice before discussing anything difficult with Belinda. She’d no doubt already heard the woman gossiping for Britain, and probably decided she didn’t want her business to be the next item on Belinda’s bulletins.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, I’m not trying to pry. It’s just that I’ve heard the College can be quite… pressured. A lot of clever girls, all stuck together like that, and if you throw in hormones and GCSEs and all that, then well, it’s not surprising it can get a bit… intense.’ Katie smiled.

  There was a pause, then Maria raised her large brown eyes. Katie saw, to her surprise and shock, that they were brimming with tears.

  ***

  Harry York sat with his eyes shut, head in his hands. Again. It seemed to be becoming an habitual posture, and he felt the protesting ache in his shoulders and back. A bit more sleep would be good, too, he thought, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, checking first this way and that down the grim green corridor. He didn’t want to be caught out by any nurses or doctors waving his arms around like an idiot. He sat back down, and the plastic chair protested with a creak. He knew how it felt. If he sat here much longer, he’d take root.

  He didn’t blame the PC, who was supposed to be taking a five-minute break, for swinging the lead a bit. The poor kid had been there for hours. It was one of those jobs when you were glad it was boring – except that boring was boring. There was a skill in staying still and being patient, one which York knew full well he didn’t possess. He’d been lucky that his 2.1 degree in criminology and law from Derby had got him fast-tracked into the Met; a bit of a golden ticket – though achieved via plenty of hard work – that had seen him swerve round some of the duller duties. That made him all the more sympathetic to those ploughing a career path the hard way.

  PC Wilson was probably getting whatever was closest to a full English down in the Costa branch downstairs. That, in itself, was a perfect example of NHS double-think. All those exhortations to eat your five-a-day, and yet every single food outlet in this place, packed with patients suffering diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease or other diet-related ailments, was piled high with tempting arrays of chocolates, crisps, fizzy drinks and pastries, the very thought of which was making him hungry enough to eat this damned plastic chair.

  It had been a hard night, not so much for him, but for Jo Osborne. Having got home to an empty flat, and immediately checked her daughter Simone’s bedroom, Jo had been beside herself at realising the girl had not slept there the night before. She’d then rung 999.

  ‘She must have sneaked out last night when I was asleep. I fell asleep putting Lewis to bed around 8, I was dead to the world, spark out. I can’t believe she’s done this; she’s never done anything like this before, never. I’m mortified. I can’t believe it, I can’t,’ Jo explained to York, again and again. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t check her room before I left for work. I feel terrible. Terrible.’

  York listened to the lament, but knew there was nothing he could do to take the edge off her distress. If she’d noticed her daughter was missing last night or even this morning, things might have gone down differently. Jo Osborne would have to spend the rest of her life making her peace with that.

  Her panicked call to the emergency services was just the beginning of her nightmare. ‘Tell the truth, I was expecting them to fob me off – saying she hadn’t been missing long enough, nothing they could do… Instead they was, like, on red alert,’ Jo had explained to York, her voice and hands still trembling.

  The poor woman, expecting a huge machine to take little notice of the spanner she was trying to lob into its works, was justifiably terrified when a squad car was immediately dispatched to her address, and she and the protesting Lewis were bundled off to King’s. Her terror did not lessen when she glimpsed her parchment-pale daughter.

  She burst in, shouting the girl’s name, and York felt a sense of completion as Jo took up her rightful place by the girl’s bedside, head nestling into the girl’s unresisting shoulder, sobbing her heart out onto the faded blanket and NHS issue nightgown.

  The child had been claimed, and at least one mystery was solved. Here lay Simone Osborne, fourteen years old, a pupil at the College School in Dulwich. For the second time, though, the girl resisted the call to consciousness. She’d been untouched by all Beth’s maternal efforts and now, despite her real mother’s tears, exhortations and pleas, despite the jammy fingers of her little brother trying to prise her eyelids open, the slight figure on the bed remained impervious, her limbs inert, her mind floating above them in who-knew-what dream world. Whatever Prince Charming she was waiting for, York prayed he’d bring strong magic with him. It would have to be, to break this charm.

  Chapter Eight

  Sophia Jones-Creedy lay back on the none-too-fragrant cushions of the lumpy sofa and sighed with pleasure, letting her hand fall back limply so that Raf could claim the smouldering stub of the joint. He took it from her, snorting with something that might have been disdain when he saw how little was left, but too chilled at this point even to remonstrate with her.

  Her eyes, when she opened them again, were pinkish, the token of a night spent happily stoned, and far from her cosy Dulwich home. She smiled her crooked smile.

  ‘What’s up, babe?’ said Raf lazily, waiting for her to tell him she was smiling because he was so great. She’d certainly seemed enthusiastic, he thought, wincing a little and running a hand over a claw mark on his arm made by her sharp little nails.

  ‘Just imagining my parents’ faces when they realise my bed hasn’t been slept in for two whole nights. My mother should be back from her work trip by now, unless it’s been extended again. They’ll go mental, that’s what. Serves them right. What’s the point of even having children, if you spend no time with them and have absolutely no interest in their lives?’ she asked Raf angrily.

  He shrugged indifferently and started lazily kissing her neck. She was a very lucky girl. If he wasn’t too stoned, he might just be in the mood to show her again. He’d found her a few weeks ago, with a bunch of giggling friends, at a club they were transparently years too young to attend legally. It was a while since he’d had that trouble himself – he didn’t like to remember it too clearly, but he was pushing 28 now – but a lot of his girlfriends had to be nice
to the bouncers, or get themselves fake cards. It was just the way it was.

  Soph was the latest girl – or perhaps fairer to say, one of the latest batch of girls – to fall for his mix of still-boyish looks, ripped physique, open-handed way with the drinks and the weed, and his undeniable expertise in bed or, to be strictly accurate, on this stained sofa. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture in his flat off Peckham High Street. He’d get round to all that.

  Meantime, he had big plans for Soph. She was a looker, anyone could see that. And she was eager to get her hands on life, try everything all at once – the drugs, the booze, and the rest of it, too, he reckoned, once he’d got her needing something every day. These posh girls were easy to break. Used to everything going their way, it was a big shock when the ponies and parties stopped and they needed to work for a living. For the moment, though, the two of them were in the honeymoon phase. He dropped another sloppy, lazy kiss on her neck.

  He’d had to jettison his last girl, fast. A bit too fast for his liking, but it couldn’t be helped. He just hoped there wouldn’t be any comeback on that whole situation. No point worrying about that, though. It was his mantra, and it had got him this far.

  He opened an eye and grinned at Sophia, taking in the lithe curves, the perfect skin, the milk and honey look of the pampered child that clung to her, despite everything. She had potential.

  ‘Soph,’ he said, nudging her bare bottom with his knee in a way he judged irresistible. ‘Do us a favour.’

  She flipped over and squinted at him, pulling at the old sheet to cover herself, smoke from his smouldering joint getting in her eyes. ‘Do us a fry-up, will yer?’

  Sophia looked around, surprised. ‘Is there any food here? I thought you were out of supplies, that’s why I got the pizza last night.’ He winced as her cut-glass vowels sliced through his muzzy head. He didn’t really get hangovers, kept his levels well topped up all day, but the dope left him headachey in the mornings and that fucking accent was doing him in. The sooner he moved her over to something harder, the better. His head would be better, and she wouldn’t be talking so much any more.

  ‘Nah. You’ll have to pop out and get it, love. You do know how to do the shopping, doncha?’

  As he’d hoped, the merest suggestion that she wasn’t up to the job had Sophia scrabbling for her clothes, eager to prove him and the world wrong. Not for nothing had she been trained by that posh school of hers. He bet she thought she was going to be the best little shopper in Peckham. And then she’d cook whatever she bought so well, it would be like that bird off the telly, Deliciously Bella, or whatever her name was. Soph was going to make sure it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. He couldn’t help grinning to himself.

  ‘Right, I’m off then, Raf. Just one thing…’

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, opening one eye and squinting at her.

  ‘What’s in a fry-up, actually?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘What, your mum’s never done a fry-up for yer dad?’ Sophie snorted at the idea and was going to explain, but Raf cut her off. Of all the things he couldn’t be arsed with, the intricacies of her home set-up was now top of the list. ‘Bacon, sausage, tomato, beans, toast,’ he gabbled, and tacked on at the end, ‘oh, and get us out another £50 in cash, will yer?’

  She smiled, looking like she was floating on air at being treated like a grown-up and part of a couple and all the rest of that shit, and she dropped a loving goodbye kiss on his well-developed bicep. ‘Back soon,’ she trilled. Too soon, probably, he thought, as soon as the door shut. He pulled a stained cushion over his head and dozed.

  ***

  York knew he should resist, but he couldn’t. He needed to discuss the case with someone. Yes, there was the PC on the hospital door. Yes, there was his guv here at the station. But that was it. He was chronically sort-staffed on this case; it was ridiculous. The awful thing was that, at the moment, it was being classified as just a drug overdose. Just. It was an unspoken fact that if the girl died, everything would change. The case would be bumped up to suspicious death and funds would suddenly become available. It was a horrible irony but if there was no longer a girl to save, he’d be in a much better position to save the girl. It was doing his head in, he didn’t mind admitting it… but who could he even admit it to? He needed a sympathetic ear, it always helped him get cases straight. He played idly with his phone, scrolling down recent calls. And there was Beth…

  He stopped himself thinking about how wrong all this was, and instead considered the fact that she was the one who’d found the girl – Simone – in the first place. Maybe there was still something they’d overlooked, something useful from those first moments of the case? OK, it didn’t stand up to any kind of scrutiny but… he was already pressing dial.

  ‘Harry? Sorry, Inspector? Any news?’

  Beth was at her desk, with the by-products of her labours of that morning in front of her. A cardboard container of coffee and a ravaged bar of Cadbury’s whole nut – she reasoned that it was important Ben didn’t see her eating too many unhealthy snacks at home. The fact that this gave her leeway to ingest a lot of rubbish at work was… convenient, she had to admit. Oh, and there was also a whole pile of archive stuff that she’d been busily ignoring, while she checked the news on Google every five minutes to see what, if anything, had been reported.

  ‘I still don’t see anything about the case online… just wondered…’

  ‘Well, the news is that we have identified the girl; her name is Simone Osborne. Her parents, well, mother, has been informed, she’s at the hospital – but there’s no change.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Beth, and immediately realised just how much she’d been hoping for better news, for a miraculous return to consciousness. ‘But it’s great that you’ve found out who she is. Simone? Doesn’t ring any bells. And wait, what about the other girl, Sophia Jones-Creedy? Where was she all that time? And the bag? Any sign of that?’

  ‘Can we meet?’ said York heavily. ‘I just need to do some thinking out loud.’

  Beth was silent for a beat. He’d never said anything like this before. Previously, in fact, he’d batted off all her attempts to get him to discuss the case. She savoured the change for a moment. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m due a break,’ she added, crossing her fingers. She was actually due to do a smidgeon of work – but this, she decided, was far more important. ‘Where?’

  ‘Look, I know there’s a pecking order of cafes which I can’t hope to understand, but somewhere quiet would be good.’

  Beth mentally scanned the places she knew round about. Jane’s was out, unless the Met Police wanted to issue a press release direct to all the mothers of Dulwich. She’d already subjected York to Aurora’s once before and, though he had seemed to shrug off the experience, she wasn’t sure she’d ever want to watch him eating one of their bacon sandwiches again. The lovely tiny deli, Romeo Jones, was too dinky – the other patrons would be virtually sitting in their laps, vacuuming up every detail of the case even more assiduously than Beth herself. The other Italian deli on the other side of the road was a bit too dark inside… And the restaurants? The unwritten rules of Dulwich made Beth think of them as lunch venues only. No, there was only one place it could be.

  ‘How about the Gallery again? That’s where all this started. And the café is great. If it’s full and you’re worried about being overheard, we can sit outside – either on the bench away from everyone, or at the tables if it’s not too crowded.’

  ***

  Jo Osborne was sitting at her daughter’s side, her hand clinging desperately to the cool, lifeless fingers, which felt like a bundle of strange, delicate twigs now, not like real flesh and blood things any more, not like the useful pair of hands which had fluttered around their kitchen, making a surprisingly good cup of tea, helping out a bit with Lewis’s messes, burning the toast of course. But what Jo wouldn’t give now, for a piece of toast burnt to cinders by her daughter.

  Simone was moving further and further aw
ay, and there was nothing she could do to stop her.

  Jo put her forehead down on their clasped hands, and a tear leaked out of her eye onto them. She kept thinking she couldn’t cry any more, then she’d realise her face was wet and she hadn’t even known she’d started up again.

  The doctor had already been by that morning, explaining things to her. Tests, and time, and waiting, and whether the waiting should go on.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ he’d said. And that was the weight on her heart, as heavy as Simone had been in those final days before her birth, when she’d felt her baby low in her womb, dragging her down, making her steps roll like a sailor fresh off a boat, and she’d known then that the two of them couldn’t go on in the same body any more. Maybe what she knew now was that Simone couldn’t go on separately any more, either.

  But what if she was wrong? She wasn’t much of a one for reading, but there’d been cases, hadn’t there, of people who’d sat up after years in comas? Wasn’t there some woman in Germany who’d missed the wall coming down? Or was that just a film? She wished, not for the first time, she’d had a different kind of mind, the kind of cleverness that Simone herself possessed. Because, what if she went along with what they were saying, let them do the tests, turned off the machine, and her Simone could have come round half an hour later if she’d just left well alone?

  It was ridiculous, but she kept thinking about that pot plant she’d bought last Christmas. One of those bright red things? What did they call them, poinsettias? She’d bought it on impulse at the check-out, just thought it’d brighten the place up a bit, but no. The leaves had started to drop almost as soon as she’d got it home, then all the bright red petals, too. She’d slung it out, or intended to; just dumped it by the bins outside, really. The bin men were terrible around Christmas; you never knew whether they were coming or not, once all those Bank Holidays threw the schedule up in the air. Two weeks later, that plant was looking as bright as when she’d bought it, stuck out there in all weathers, and she took it back inside, glad the bin men hadn’t taken it after all. What if she did that to Simone, though, unplugged her too soon? There’d be no second chance for her.