by Alice Castle
Doctors weren’t always right, were they? She might come back from this, she might… Or what if they found something, in two years’ time, say, that could wake people up from states like the one Simone was in? That could happen, couldn’t it? If she could just keep her attached to everything, there was hope. If she turned off the machines too early – well, it was too easy to say she’d never forgive herself. She’d never forgive herself for any of it as it was.
All those months she’d dithered when she’d first fallen pregnant, wondering whether to have Simone hoovered out, thrown down a sink in some clinic. All those months after she was born, when she thought she’d just have to hand her over to the Social, worn to nothing by the screaming, baffled about what the tiny red angry creature wanted from her…loving her but hating her; sixteen and trapped for life with a baby and no help; her own mother worse than useless; her latest stepdad not safe around a nine-months-pregnant girl, let alone a baby…
What a mess it had all been, and yet somehow, it had turned out all right. They were never going to be rich, but she had her job, Simone was doing so great at school, Lewis was a poppet when he wasn’t a little devil. They were ok. Simone – from being that tiny, angry bundle – was her best friend; they had a right laugh these days. And she could see the years ahead, clear as day. They’d be one of those mother-daughter pairs who did everything together, got their nails done, went out on the town, even. When Simone got married, they’d have a hen do with those fuchsia pink sashes and L-plates and plenty of booze, and why not? Even those inflatable willies, and all. She could see it. She wanted it so much. The pain was terrible now, she could hardly breathe for crying.
She raised her head and pleaded with her still, silent daughter, ‘Come on then, love, we’ve been ok together, you and me, ain’t we? Come back to us, come back to me and Lewis. Wake up, love, just wake up. Please, hon.’
There was no answer.
Chapter Nine
Harry York and Beth were at the Gallery again, this time at one of the wooden tables close to the café. There was hardly anyone around – a feat achieved by picking a rendezvous time between early nursery pick-up and lunchtime. So, most of the mummies were occupied at home, possibly slaving over their weekly food orders from Ocado, but more likely planning to buy everything from posh frozen meal shop Cook while watching Netflix like ordinary mortals.
Beth was stirring her cappuccino in slightly desultory fashion, while York outlined the gloomy state of the case so far.
‘The trouble is, we don’t actually know that this wasn’t all an elaborate suicide bid.’ He held up his hand as Beth started to expostulate.
‘I know, I know, it’s hardly the place anyone would pick… but we don’t know this girl, Simone Osborne. Maybe she’s a highly theatrical type. I mean, for goodness’ sake, most teenage girls seem to be on the verge of hysteria half the time.’
Beth contented herself by giving him a short but effective death ray stare, though her own researches over the past couple of days had convinced her that young girls were a very different breed now from the almost cartoonishly innocent kid she had been way back then.
‘Was there nothing at all on CCTV?’ she countered. ‘Why do people even have it? Nothing useful ever seems to get recorded.’
York shot a glare at Beth now. It was certainly a lamentable fact that in both this case and the one that had thrown them together, CCTV had been worse than useless. ‘You can’t really expect the Gallery to train their security systems on three dead people when they’ve got priceless art on the walls,’ said York, trying to be reasonable. ‘It’s not a big surprise that the mausoleum itself isn’t covered.’
Beth, much though she wanted to raise a pithy objection, realised that if she were running the Gallery’s budget, she’d have made exactly the same choice. No-one in their right mind was going to try and shift a solid marble sarcophagus, which must weigh several tonnes and have no resale value – unless you wanted to retile your bathroom in doomy oxblood red, of course. But the thought of half-inching a nice Poussin did cross even the least nefarious of minds, as she could herself attest.
‘Even if there’s no footage of anyone leaving Simone in the niche, surely there must be some of her working at the St Christopher’s event?’
‘We have spotted her there – not easy, though, as all the kids were wearing special black St Christopher’s T shirts and baseball caps for the do, and the girls with long hair had it tied back. Basically, they all look the same. Every single girl seems to have had a long pony tail. You’d think they’d be trying for a bit more individuality. I thought the teenage years were full of experimentation,’ shrugged York.
Beth, swishing her own luxuriant pony tail a little defensively, said quite mildly, ‘I expect the organisers wanted them all to look the same, and asked for a simple hairdo.’
York nodded. ‘Hmmm. Doesn’t get us any further, though.’
‘And anything on the bag?’ Beth’s question was tentative.
York sighed. ‘I hate to disappoint you, but yes, it has turned up.’
‘But that’s great!’ Beth sat up straighter on the bench, suddenly radiating energy. ‘And?’
‘And… it was empty. Nothing in it at all. Just a cheap Primark rucksack, no distinguishing features, no phone, no anything that’s the slightest bit of use to us.’
‘Oh,’ Beth’s voice was very small. ‘Do you think something could have got lost, while it was at the hospital?’
‘Possibly, but we can’t search everyone at King’s. No, the bag is a dead end. We’ve just got to move on.’
Beth sat and thought for a while. York was right, there was no point wallowing in disappointment. So, the bag had been empty. There were other leads to pursue. ‘Have you asked the Gallery top brass what their take on the whole thing is?’ she said suddenly.
‘That’s next on our agenda. Drink up,’ urged York, swigging back the last of his latte while Beth hurriedly slurped at her drink, then ran her finger round the interior to scoop out the pale foam. She caught him looking.
‘What? It’s the best bit. I don’t know why people order cappuccinos then leave the froth behind. They spend ages making it and fluffing it up just so. Without that, it’s just another white coffee.’
She sucked her finger appreciatively and York suddenly found himself averting his gaze, looking towards the blank arches of the Gallery instead. ‘Strange, the way this place looks as though it’s staring at you,’ he said.
‘I think that was Soane’s idea,’ said Beth, still intent on scooping out her coffee.
‘Soane? Who was he, the first owner?’
Beth looked up, incredulous. ‘You’ve never heard of Sir John Soane?’
York gave her a long, level look.
‘Well, I’m sorry but… he designed this place? And have you never been to the Soane Museum in Holborn?’
York continued with the look.
‘Honestly, you should go. They have wonderful candlelit evenings… it’s spectacular. Just a normal Georgian house from the outside – well, two houses – and inside, it’s stuffed with treasures, like Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress.’ She peeped over at York, but he was still doing that look. ‘My favourite thing is this amazing Egyptian sarcophagus with a painting inside it, a simple line drawing, of a goddess… it’s so beautiful.’
Beth looked rapturous for a second, but then the full import of that hefty word, sarcophagus, squashed her pleasure. A harbinger of death, like the ones at the Gallery. And it probably wasn’t the moment to be swept away by a nineteenth century collector, either. She was disappointed at York’s determination not to know more, but at one level it was a comfort. At least he was concentrating on the matter at hand.
York, whose attention had been piqued by the candlelit evenings and a sudden vision of the two of them together in flickering light, shook his head and looked ostentatiously at his watch. ‘Finished? We need to get inside.’
Five minutes later, they were installe
d in a light-filled office in the new wing of the Gallery, much to Beth’s disappointment. She’d been hoping that the Chair of the Trustees had some impossibly grand suite of rooms, hidden somewhere in the old building. She looked rather sniffily round at the space-age sheet glass desk, the slanting wall of windows, and the chrome and leather chairs, and thought that they could have been at any big bank or firm of accountants. Only a framed poster of the recent Ravilious exhibition on the wall hinted at a connection with art.
York, meanwhile, was looking round with an open expression of pleasure. Beth darted him a disbelieving look. Then the door was flung wide, and a small woman advanced towards them. Though she was little more than Beth’s height, her perfect posture made her seem formidable, as did the severe way her dark, silver-streaked hair was swept into a chignon. She wore a floaty grey silk dress which showcased toned arms, emphatically free of the accursed bingo wings which dragged down half the population after a certain age. Her only accessories were large shiny silver earrings and a complicated matching collar of metallic beads in varying sizes, in the sort of style Beth privately derided as ‘fancy-pants’, though she automatically sat up a little straighter in her chair and tried to hide her scuffed trainers.
The woman sat down with an elegant economy of movement, laid her phone face down on the desk, and smiled briefly at them both. ‘Anneka Baker, Chair of the Trustees of the Gallery. We’re all terribly upset at what’s happened, and we want to do everything we can to help,’ she said, her voice low and confiding. She settled her hands in front of her on the desk, loosely clasped, and smiled slightly at them both.
Beth, thinking crossly there was something rather showy about this woman, had a ‘doh!’ moment, remembering that Anneka Baker had turned down a career in dance to become an academic, rising to become Vice Principal at the Prince’s College, London, part of London University, and, indeed, was the mother of Drusilla Baker, prima ballerina of the Royal Ballet.
York, meanwhile, was gazing unabashed into Anneka Baker’s lustrous brown eyes and was beginning to look like one of those nodding dogs you put in the back of your car.
‘If there’s anything we can do to help, just ask,’ said Anneka again, this time spreading the beautiful hands wide, the light catching the finely manicured, almond-shaped nails, just touched with pearlescent polish.
‘There are a few questions we need answers to,’ said Beth, leaning forward – and breaking the spell. Anneka Baker sat back in her chair, her features looking less gentle and sympathetic by the second.
‘Really? Because there’s very little that we, as the Trustees, could possibly know about the… events of that night.’ Anneka’s fine eyebrows arched.
‘Oh, well, you must have a guest list for the St Christopher’s reception held here, for starters, then you’ll know the names of all those who were brought in to help with the event… and we’ll need to see any visitors’ book that people might have signed.’
This time, the brows snapped together, and even York turned to Beth in surprise. ‘Well, it’s true, we need that stuff, don’t we?’
‘We do,’ York conceded. ‘Absolutely.’ But he paused and smiled at Anneka Baker. ‘And we really appreciate all your help and co-operation, it’s essential in a terribly sad case like this.’
‘But the girl hasn’t… I understood she was…?’ Anneka Baker delicately left the sentence dangling.
‘She is still alive, but it’s not looking good. There’s very little chance of her waking up at this point, so we’re going to need to start thinking of this as a possible… Well, a very serious investigation.’
Beth didn’t quite roll her eyes at the way York was playing Anneka Baker’s tune and avoiding the dirty word of murder, but she did let a small snort escape. Both of them looked at her – Anneka Baker in mild disdain; York in concern.
‘If you could arrange to get those lists to me as soon as possible, that would be incredibly helpful,’ said York rapidly, and started patting his pockets, making sure he had his phone, then rising to his feet.
‘Is that it?’ Beth, still seated, was astonished. She’d thought they had loads of ground to go over. But Anneka Baker leapt up immediately, her dress falling into graceful folds as she stepped forward and stood to shake their hands. Beth got up too quickly and lurched as she tripped on one of her trailing trainer laces, whacking her thigh painfully against the unforgiving surface of the glass table.
York shot out an arm to right her, which she shook off crossly. Anneka Baker studied her briefly, then busied herself giving York one of those double handshakes which only the most insincere of politicians went in for, to Beth’s mind. When it was her turn, the woman gave Beth the merest touch with fingers that felt impossibly delicate, while Beth knew her own, much sturdier hand was decidedly damp after her embarrassing stumble. It was all most unfair. She was petite too – why couldn’t she be dainty with it?
They trooped out of the office together, and made it safely down the glass corridor and back out into the Gallery gardens before Beth exploded. ‘Well! What on earth was all that about? Call that an interrogation?’
‘Hang on,’ said York, wheeling on Beth, making her shrink back and ram one of the café’s metal outdoor chairs. ‘Why should I be interrogating her? We need to butter her up, get her on our side… without her, we’re fighting the Gallery. Have you seen the names on the list of Trustees? It’s practically everyone who’s ever run a business or the BBC. Great and good doesn’t even begin to cover it. We need access to information from the Gallery, and we aren’t going to get it by getting their backs up. They’ll just shut us out and make it ten times harder.’
Beth, chastened, looked down at her ratty trainers. She knew York was right. She’d let her personal – and completely unreasonable – animosity get the better of her. It was really silly, and it wasn’t helping them, or, more to the point, helping poor Simone Osborne.
‘Is there anyone else on the list that’s a bit more… approachable? Someone who might give us the inside track?’
York gave Beth a considering look. ‘Well, there’s one person you might actually have an in with. It’s Dr Grover.’
‘Dr Grover from Wyatt’s? The headmaster?’ said Beth, beginning to smile, as most women in Dulwich did when they thought about the flamboyant head.
‘The very same,’ said York shortly.
‘Why didn’t you say so, instead of wasting our time with… that old stick?’ said Beth, getting a sly dig into the elegant Ms Baker while she could. ‘I can get to work on Grover right away.’
York grunted his assent. It was his turn to kick at the grass with his hefty size 12s.
***
Sophia Jones-Creedy looked around at her little coterie of admirers. There was a smile on her face – not her trademark, quizzical, one side-higher-than-the-other grin that always brought in bushels of likes, but a mild expression of approval that was enough to keep her friends twittering away to her, without them noticing that her attention was far, far away.
She still couldn’t quite believe she’d got away with it all. Two days she’d been absent; two days her bed at her parents’ home had not been slept in. Two days missing from school.
She’d been expecting a massive row when she finally turned up again last night. She’d only gone back because she’d run out of money and Raf had run out of weed. Once her cashpoint card had come up empty, he’d suddenly remembered an urgent appointment on the other side of town. She knew it was just his way, she didn’t really take it amiss. He wasn’t used to being in a relationship yet, but he’d learn. They needed each other, needed to be together. More importantly, he needed her. He’d forget to eat if she wasn’t around, she thought with an indulgent chuckle. He’d definitely forget to wash and clean the flat. But she was the ideal teacher.
Ok, so she’d never had an actual boyfriend before, but she’d been reading magazines, checking out websites, watching DVDs her whole entire life, which prepared her for this – being in love – a
nd not much else. Oh, apart from the career in law her mother was always banging on about. Raf was the one, definitely; even though at the moment he was, yeah, a little rough around the edges. But that would soon be sorted out. As well as the endless questionnaires, like ‘Ten ways to work out if your man really cares,’ – and he did, even if he might not yet know how much – there were plenty of sites which promised to whip even the most obdurate boy into shape. No problem for someone really motivated like her.
So, there was that. But there was also the situation with her parents. She didn’t like to admit it – it never paid to show weakness – but she was seriously pissed off that no-one had basically noticed that she’d been away. Sure, her mother had been in Dubai and then on that endless flight. And her dad had been tied up the whole day with those tiresome sick people. She wasn’t going to call them cripples, for God’s sake, that was so offensive, but there was definitely something wrong with them all. And great that her dad could fix them. But he was also her dad, and surely that was his most important job?
You wouldn’t think so, from all the concern he’d shown. Once he’d got over his outrage at being dragged in to see the wrong person in hospital, he’d just retreated to his study to write up his case notes for the day. And mum, well. She’d just been a jetlagged zombie. The most cursory question about homework, a hug, a vague ticking-off about ‘late nights’, then lots of cross-questioning her stupid brother on what he’d eaten for every single meal since she’d been gone. It was ridiculous.
She could basically have left home for good and no-one would have noticed. Except, of course, for the au pair – she knew her bed had not been slept in. The girl had finally been brave enough to tell her parents. Sophia would remember that, and pay her back in spades. But, after about two seconds’ worth of anxiety, when her parents had demanded an explanation at long last, Sophia had lied her way effortlessly out of the hole. Everyone had been relieved to accept her half-hearted excuse that she’d been round at Chiara Luyten’s house. There hadn’t been a single awkward question. Would they even check up on her story, by ringing Chiara’s boring, stressy mum? She seriously doubted it. Honestly, what kind of parents did she have, anyway? They thought they were so smart, but they couldn’t see what was happening right under their noses. They shouldn’t be this easy to fool, should they?