The dark-blue lantern hanging from the old building looked in need of a polish – the word Police more grey than white.
Should I go inside?
I’d woken thinking that I should. I had knowledge of the victim. It’s possible I’d seen her days, hours, minutes before she’d been killed. Would I ever know? Could they ever pinpoint the exact day of her death?
A panda car drew up as I stood dithering and I moved swiftly away. That’s when I saw him. Dave. Jogging down the street. Hands stuck in his pockets, eyes down, he didn’t see me. Taking the steps two at a time, he disappeared inside.
I had no idea what he was doing there, but I didn’t care. It was the excuse I needed to abandon my plan. I scurried away.
When I got home, Dad rang to say he was coming home for a day and a night and was planning to stay in lodgings.
Excited, I dismissed any remaining thoughts of talking to the police and made a list of exactly what I wanted to do: Dave’s records. Lunch. A walk along the river (to remind Dad he wanted to sail around the world, not live in a pub in Norfolk). Shopping – Boots (to buy green nail varnish). The fair (because Mum and Bob had asked me and I didn’t want to go with them).
In the kitchen, I was so absorbed in eating Frosties that I didn’t notice Bob until he boomed, ‘Good morning!’ He was wearing a bathrobe. I turned away from his hairy legs and focused on my list. He went to the fridge as if he lived here, opened the door and peered inside.
‘I thought I’d make scrambled eggs,’ he said, ‘for your mother. Would you like some?’
I shook my head.
He found a dish and cracked eggs. ‘Looking forward to today?’
Obviously. What did he want me to say? I pushed back my chair.
‘Are you then?’ he persisted.
‘Yes.’
‘Great! What have you got planned?’
I mentioned lunch.
‘What else?’
‘The fair. Maybe.’
‘Oh. I thought you didn’t want to go.’
Shrugging, I stood up, just as Mum appeared in her silly rosebud dressing gown. Why couldn’t she come down in her proper clothes like she used to?
‘Do you hear that, Phyllis?’ said Bob. ‘Elizabeth’s going to the fair. Without us.’
Mum gave me one of her hurt looks then bent to take plates from the cupboard. I moved to the door. Too late. She’d straightened before I could escape.
‘I’m really not sure why you’re seeing him and I’m really not sure why I’m letting you go.’ She spoke in a rush as if she’d been storing the words.
I waited a beat before moving again. This was not going to end well unless I left now.
‘Don’t walk away.’
I clenched my fists and the list crumpled in my hands.
‘What’s on that paper?’
‘Nothing.’
She held out her hand. ‘Let me see.’
‘Why?’
‘Let me see.’
Reluctantly, I gave it to her. She frowned, reading, and I dug my nails painfully into my skin. Bob stopped beating eggs and scratched one bushy eyebrow. He looked from me to Mum to the shoes by the back door. I guessed he was worried I’d throw another missile. A bubble of laughter threatened to rise from somewhere deep inside of me.
‘Don’t smirk,’ said Mum, noticing. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘I’m not smirking.’ I scowled instead.
She wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘You do remember he left me for somebody else, don’t you?’ She stopped, but I knew what she was thinking. And that means he left you too.
I clamped my lips together, refusing to be drawn.
‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
I glared at her. ‘Please can I have my list?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I despair.’
‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ I heard Bob say as I left the room. ‘I know you’re hurt, but it’s not her fault.’
Dad was waiting outside Dave’s in a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
I stared at my reflection and blinked.
‘Hey,’ he said, ruffling my hair, ‘how are you?’
He gave me a hug and I mumbled, ‘All right,’ and followed him into the shop.
‘I’m back,’ said Dad, whipping off his sunglasses.
Dave came across.
‘All right?’ they said at the same time, slapping each other on the back and then returning to what they’d normally do: Dave with his headphones on, nodding in time to the music; Dad going straight to Barry White. I dawdled, picked out an album at random – Val Doonican: rocking chair, cardigan and pipe. Wasn’t that how Dad was supposed to behave at forty-two, not like an aging pop star? I was sure his platforms were even higher than they had been before, and what about those sunglasses?
Still, I was just starting to relax, thinking all was right in the record world, when Dad shuffled across to Elvis Presley. Another alien move on his part. Especially when he pulled out Blue Hawaii and announced he was going to buy it. Well, if Dad was going to be different, I would be too. When Dad asked me what I wanted, I said Val Doonican.
‘Are you serious?’ he said.
I raised my eyebrows and looked knowingly at Elvis. Are you? We both knew it was a present for Charlotte.
Dave rang up the records on the till.
‘How’s business?’ said Dad.
‘So, so.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yeah. Not bad.’
‘All right.’
‘How’s the security business?’
I lost interest and wandered across to the window. The hairdresser directly opposite was called Trim. I’d seen the shop, but not taken much notice of the name before. Mum cut my hair and had hers done in a posh boutique in town. Now I felt a jolt as I imagined Peggy being there. Trim was for Ladies, the sign said. Next door, there was a barber’s.
While I was watching, a girl went inside followed by a middle-aged woman. It was busy. Maybe it had become more popular now Peggy had died. Vultures, Maggie would call them, sniffing about. Could vultures sniff? Did they have noses? Were beaks noses? I switched to thinking about Peggy. Who had taken her clients? I wondered if she’d had her own special place: seat, scissors, hair products, comb.
Dad and Dave were still talking. Dave was slipping the records into paper bags. Two bags for each one.
The door opened and my heart dropped as Mr Wright came in.
I looked across at Dad who was still busy at the counter. Had he heard the door open, sensed someone come in? He definitely hadn’t registered who it was, although he must recognise him. How could he not? Mr Wright was unmissable with his checked shirt and neat beard, not to mention his size.
If he went away now, Dad might not notice. I tried to communicate this using my best attempts at telepathy, but clearly it wasn’t working; either that or Mr Wright didn’t care because he went straight across to Country and Western.
‘Stand By Your Man’ popped into my head. Mrs Wright hadn’t been very good at that.
Dad turned and his expression made so many rapid transformations it was like a dozen drawings of the same cartoon.
Even Dave’s deadpan face showed a flicker of an emotion. What that was, I didn’t know. You never could tell with Dave.
Slowly, Mr Wright picked up Tammy Wynette in one hand and Dolly Parton in the other.
‘There you go,’ said Dave, his voice louder than usual as he finished Dad’s sale and handed him the records.
Mr Wright took one step forward and then another until he was right in Dad’s face.
I held my breath.
He held up the records. ‘Which one?’
Behind him, Dave cleared his throat. ‘Tammy Wynette.’
‘Agreed?’ he said to Dad.
Dad nodded.
‘How much?’
‘Two pounds forty-nine,’ said Dave.
Mr Wright got out his wallet. There was a long pause before he turned to Dad. ‘How’s my wife?’
After all the expressions he’d been through, Dad had rejected the lot of them. Now he was a stone, rigid and pale, gripping the paper bags with solidified hands.
‘She’s fine,’ he said in a strangled voice.
‘And my daughter?’
‘Fine too.’
‘Good.’ Mr Wright handed over a single pound note, holding on for a moment too long so that Dave had to pause, waiting for the moment of release.
Tension sizzled. The note crackled. Dave slipped it into the till.
Slowly, Mr Wright turned his back and left the shop.
There was a terrible silence, and then, ‘You owe me.’ Dave held out his hand. ‘One pound forty-nine.’
Dad paid without a murmur.
From the window, I watched as Mr Wright crossed the road and turned in at the barber’s.
Later we walked along the river and stopped on the bridge.
‘He’s not a victim,’ said Dad, leaning his elbows on the balustrade. He was talking about Mr Wright.
‘You see, Charlotte’ – he paused to scratch his chin – ‘she’s more vulnerable than you think. She appears hard, but underneath she’s mushy.’
I had no interest in what Mrs Wright was like underneath. Mushy or not.
‘She’s the victim,’ he added.
‘How?’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
I rolled my eyes. Things were always hard to explain when it came to Dad.
He tried again. ‘There are men who treat women badly. Mr Wright is one of them.’
I kept silent. I liked Rachel’s dad a lot more than I liked her mum, so I wasn’t about to agree.
Dad pulled out a cigarette and took his time lighting it. I fixed my eyes on the moorhens darting at the edge of the water and hoped this wasn’t going to turn into a chat about the birds and the bees. I had no interest in talking about sex with my father. Come to think of it, I had no interest in talking about sex with anyone. It was bad enough thinking about it: predicting when and where and with whom.
A boat came down the river, a middle-aged couple sipping wine at the prow. Dad’s mouth curved into a smile. Did he still want to sail away? Would he take me with him? Or was it strictly Charlotte and Melissa: a two-berth cabin, no room for me?
‘Men,’ said Dad, as if the conversation hadn’t paused, ‘whose eyes wander.’
I stared at him. If anyone’s eyes wandered, it was his. Maybe he twigged what I was thinking because he looked away sheepishly, mumbling, ‘It’s different.’
Was it?
‘You don’t understand.’
I sighed. It was a predictable response from Dad.
‘Adult stuff,’ he said, grimacing now. ‘It’s complicated – the reasons why a parent leaves.’
I frowned, working out what he was implying. Mr Wright had been unfaithful too. Was that it? He was certainly handsome, according to Mum, and women liked him. I’d seen how his neighbour had practically swooned when he’d confronted the reporter. Mrs Townsend too, when he’d rescued her at the school open day.
Dad was thoughtful, puffing away on his cigarette. He turned to me. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say this.’
I waited, expecting more criticism of Mr Wright.
‘Charlotte’s not Rachel’s mother.’
‘Oh.’ I blinked, processing this thought. ‘Who is she then?’
‘Her aunt.’
‘Aunt?’
‘Yep.’
The woman in the photo. She was Mrs Wright’s sister, as I’d suspected, and now I knew she was Rachel’s mum.
Dad was gazing at a rowing boat. Pull, said the cox through a megaphone. Pull.
I waited until the boat had gone and then asked why Rachel didn’t live with her mum.
For a moment, he was distracted by a yacht. White and gleaming, a beauty he called this one. Then he told me that she’d abandoned Rachel when she was six years old.
‘Disappeared. Went off the rails – apparently. Didn’t tell anyone she was going. Not Charlotte, or Rachel for that matter. One day she was there. The next she walked out of the flat leaving Rachel on her own.’
‘On her own? What happened?’
‘Well, three days later, Charlotte called round. They’d argued not long before and I think she had it in her head they’d sort it out. No answer. Luckily she looked through the letter box and there was Rachel – sitting cross-legged in the hall.’
‘What did Rachel say?’
‘Not a lot. That she was waiting for her mum to come home.’
‘What about her dad?’
He shrugged. ‘Did a bunk when she was born. Her mum did the same thing then, apparently. Ran off, leaving Charlotte to take care of the baby, and then she turned up a few weeks later in the hospital. Tried to take an overdose.’
I frowned, thinking how terrible all that must be for Rachel. ‘What was the argument with Charlotte about?’
He gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Well. That brings me back to the subject of Mr Wright.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Use your imagination, Lizzie.’ He flicked his cigarette. ‘Had an affair, didn’t they? Him and Charlotte’s sister. Why Charlotte forgave him then, I don’t know. Hasn’t now, though, has she?’
He changed the subject, pointing out another yacht on its way down the river. I was still thinking about Rachel being abandoned by her mother and Charlotte forgiving Mr Wright for his affair with her sister. I wondered if Mum would ever forgive Dad. I doubted it, not while she had Bob anyway.
We had lunch at The Grand Hotel.
It felt weird being there. I kept looking across at the entrance to the kitchen, expecting to see Peggy.
Halfway through my fish and chips I asked Dad if he remembered her.
He took a sip of his beer. ‘Who?’
‘Peggy. Long brown hair. She was here that day on my birthday.’
‘Oh. Right. Yeah. Vaguely. Why?’
‘Did you know she was murdered?’
He stared at me. ‘What?’
‘You know the body in the orchard?’
‘Yes, we spoke about it.’
That was true. He’d warned me to stay away from the place, not long after the news had broken. At the time, I’d guessed Mum had put him up to it, insisting he acted like a parent, while thinking I might listen to him more than I did to her.
‘But wasn’t her name—’
‘Margaret.’
‘Yeah, so what about Peggy?’
‘Same person.’
‘Christ.’ He stabbed a chip and examined it. ‘I see. Peggy. Margaret. I didn’t realise.’ He frowned, chewing.
‘Were you friends?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘What makes you say that?’
My stomach gave a little flip. He had the kind of expression he used to have when he came home late from The Dog and Duck and smelling of perfume.
I shrugged. ‘I just remember you forgot your wallet and went back to speak to her and—’
He blinked. ‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’ Please tell the truth, I said inside my head.
‘Right.’ He spoke slowly now. ‘So, Peggy was the woman in the orchard?’
I nodded.
‘Bloody hell.’ He shook his head and sliced a piece of chicken.
Dad was in the loo when I spotted Debra outside.
She hadn’t been back to school, but now she was walking with her mum and a sandy-haired man who I recognised from the open day. Frank. He was short, only a bit taller than Debra. Her mum was the tallest of the three and wore a dress that I guessed was the one Frank had bought. Only, it didn’t fit the glorious description Debra had given. It was fancy, but even I could tell it was cheap – too many frills and the hem was coming down at the back.
What struck me was how happy the three of them were. Debra between them, chattering.
I bit my lip as something hard and sharp lodged inside my chest.
Envy.
There was no mistaking that.