The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) (23 page)

‘Got yourself a library card yet?’ he asked.

Lee shook his head.

Jason put the kettle on and dropped a teabag into a mug. ‘You know, what you’re doing could technically be construed as stealing.’

‘I always b-bring them back.’

‘You borrow books without permission.’

‘Yes,
borrow.
’ Lee frowned.

Jason laughed. ‘Oh, you’re hopeless.’

‘That’s w-what everyone keeps telling me.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Jason softened. Thwarted in his attempts at playing detective, by his own principles no less, he’d forgotten why he was running this house. He didn’t know Lee well but noticed he’d read anything, from the backs of cereal packets to computer manuals, with the same deep concentration. Perhaps this was a way to reach him.

‘I have some books in my room. You’re welcome to borrow them whenever you like. I won’t fine you if they’re late.’

Lee’s dark eyes lit up. ‘What sort of books?’

‘Well, what are you interested in?’

‘History, geography, art. P-plants and animals. Space.’

‘Ri-ight, I probably have some of that. Just knock on my door sometime.’ Jason glanced at the huge atlas on the table. ‘Anyway, how do you smuggle such a big book out of the library?’

Lee grinned. ‘I have a b-big bag.’

Sipping his tea, Jason watched Lee turning the shiny pages slowly, almost reverently, and knew he didn’t have to worry about his books being returned in poor condition.

It came to him in a flash. Borrowing, returning.
Library
.

Two librarians were on duty, one a young woman, the other an older man with a pair of reading glasses balancing on the tip of his nose. He approached the older of the two.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘I’m looking for some information on a local murder, but I’m not sure of the date.’ He gave the librarian the few details he had.

The librarian frowned. ‘Hmm, it does ring a bell. I think it might have been twenty or twenty-five years back. Let me take a look.’

Together they quickly found the microfiche dated from where the librarian suggested Jason start his search, and he began looking through old articles.

Shortly before closing time his eyes were smarting from staring at the backlit screen. This was tedious in the extreme. Perhaps he should call it quits for now and wait until tomorrow, or until Trevor rang with whatever he had managed to dig up.

Then he remembered the way his father had looked at Helen at the dinner party. Interested. Just how much did his father know about Helen?

He returned to the screen with a burst of new energy and flicked through the newspapers again, faster this time. It had to be there.

‘We’re closing in five minutes.’ The woman librarian hovered nearby. ‘I’ll have to turn off the computers now.’

‘Just give me one more minute.’ Jason flicked to another screen.
Come on, come on.

And there it was. The screaming headlines, the teasers, the hue and cry, enticing a righteously angry public to buy the newspaper and read the whole sordid tale on the inside pages.

Girl, 5, Witnesses Brutal Slaying …

‘Don’t Hurt My Mummy’, she pleaded …

Child Identifies Mother’s Killer …

He flicked to page two of the last article, but just then the screen went black.

Thwarted for the second time Jason went to check on the stall, which Neil was manning for him.

‘Thanks for helping out,’ he said.

‘No problem.’ Neil slipped back to his own stall. ‘I managed to shift that Led Zeppelin album you didn’t think anyone would go for.’

Jason’s eyebrows rose. He’d priced the mint condition vinyl lower than online sellers, but it was still in the three figures, and no one seemed to have that kind of money to spend these days. If anyone could sell the unsellable, it was Neil. ‘Wow. You’re better at this than I am.’

Neil grinned. They both knew it was true.

‘Winston around?’

‘Having his tea.’ Neil nodded in the direction of the refreshments stall, where a mop of greying dreads stood out in the dusk.

On his way back from the library an unpleasant thought had sneaked up on Jason. He’d asked Trevor to check if Helen was one of his father’s spies, but hadn’t really believed it. Now he wondered again how she had known about the room. If she wasn’t a spy for Derek, could she be working for someone else? One of his father’s enemies perhaps? As much as he hated the idea that his father was right to worry about his welfare, he needed to debunk that theory sooner rather than later.

‘Winston, my man, I have a question for you.’

‘Round here answers cost money.’ Winston pronged a forkful of baked potato into his mouth.

‘I’m hoping you’ll answer this one for free. You know the new girl who’s moved into my house?’

‘I seen her a coupla times. Blonde, curvy. Pretty if you like de misrable kind.’

‘That sounds like her. Did you tell her about my vacant room, by any chance?’

Winston eyed him disdainfully. ‘You want an estate agent, mon, you look in dem Yellow Pages. I tell her nothing.’

Once again Jason found himself outside Helen’s door, but this time he had no problem with breaking his own rules.

He’d always known she was lying to him, or rather withholding certain elements which made up the whole truth. It hadn’t bothered him, and he’d merely seen it as her way of protecting herself, just as he wanted to protect her. People did it all the time, even those who had nothing particular to hide, mostly to present themselves in a better light.

When he’d started digging, he suspected that her reality was slightly different. A little white lie, involving Winston, had got her into Jason’s house. Normally he wouldn’t worry too much about that if it hadn’t been for who his father was.

He half-expected the door to protest as he violated her personal space, and he almost felt the silent outrage when he touched the few things she had. Her desk was tidy, and in the desk drawers he found only pens, paper and a hand-written letter postmarked Goa, which he resisted reading. There was plenty of space between the clothes in her wardrobe, and the sock drawer below held nothing personal except a jewellery box made from Indian rubber wood. He didn’t even glance at her underwear. Only a perv would do that.

Tempting, though.

There was only one place left to hide things, something ex-cons did a lot, which was incongruous because he was now sure she hadn’t been to prison. Lifting the mattress, he found the folder he was looking for.

‘Bingo.’

Riffling through it, he recognised some of the articles he’d seen on microfiche, as well as some more in-depth ones. The worst of the fat headlines had been cut off.

His anger turned to horror as he read the full story of the five-year-old girl who’d seen her mother stabbed to death. A chill ran through him as he imagined her terror and confusion, and an ache spread in his chest for the kid whose life had been destroyed.

Then he turned a page to an article where names withheld during the trial were finally released.

The child had been Helen. And she was here because of Fay.

Thankfully Helen was on her own when she came back. What he had to say to her was between them, for the time being. He waited for her in the kitchen, and when she saw his expression, her eyes immediately took on a wary look.

Smart woman.

‘Perhaps you’d like to explain the meaning of this,’ he said before she could come up with another lie, and tossed the manila folder on the kitchen table.

‘Have you read …?’ There was panic in her voice.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘The whole damn thing.’

She paled.

‘I searched your room,’ he said. ‘And before you get your knickers in a twist over that, let’s get one thing straight. I own this house. People here are vulnerable, particularly Fay, though she doesn’t show it. You came here under false pretences. What were you planning to do? Hurt her?’

‘To begin with.’ She met his eyes defiantly.

Well, at least she was honest.

‘And now?’

She shook her head.

‘What changed?’ he asked.

‘I like her. Didn’t think I would, but I can’t help it.’ Her shoulders sagged, and she sighed.

‘What about the dead child? Another lie?’

‘I guess it depends on perspective.’

The look in her eyes squeezed his heart. He realised it was a part of
her
that had died as a child.

‘Are you going to throw me out?’

He had every right to, but he just couldn’t do it. She was vulnerable too. ‘You say your feelings for Fay have changed. How can I be sure of that?’

She picked up the folder and held it to her chest, not defensively this time, but as if the yellowed clippings inside represented something precious. ‘I think that … maybe …’

‘Maybe what?’ he interrupted, more harshly than he intended.

‘That maybe she didn’t do it.’

It had never occurred to him that Fay could be innocent. It wasn’t for him to judge. But if Helen believed it, he supposed that might be enough top keep the peace in the house. He so hated the idea of having to show her the door.

‘Okay, I believe you, but at the first sign of trouble you’re out on your ear, do you understand?’

She nodded, eagerly. Again he had the feeling of walking all over someone who couldn’t defend herself. At the same time, after what she’d been through as a child, she wasn’t completely broken, and the thought filled him with awe. If he could only get close to her.

‘Will you tell the others?’ she asked.

He’d said he believed her, but having her in the house was still a risk. For a moment he tossed the various scenarios in his head, then made his decision. This was one way of earning her trust, her respect. Maybe even her affection.

‘No.’

‘Jim’s had an accident.’ Bill caught Helen on Tuesday in the packing room where she was tagging a consignment of antique furniture.

‘Jim? How?’

‘Got knocked off his scooter at Hyde Park Corner. The bike’s all right, but he’s been carted off to Chelsea & Westminster hospital. A constable just brought the scooter back to the yard.’

‘Will he be okay?’ She hoped so, having begun to appreciate the youth with his glass-half-empty outlook. It made her own glass appear rather full.

‘I don’t know how bad it is.’ Bill’s face was pale, and he was twisting his work coat between his hands. ‘My sister’s going to kill me. I was supposed to look out for him.’

‘What’s your sister got to do with it?’

‘Jim’s my nephew, ain’t he? Got him the job and all, though she weren’t too happy about him whizzing all over London on a glorified bike.’

Well, what do you know, Helen thought.
This company is just one big, happy family.

‘I’m off to see him now,’ he said, shifting from one foot to another. ‘The thing is, love, I’m not good with hospitals. They give me the willies.’

Helen tied a last tag on the leg of a Regency chair. ‘You want me to come with you?’

‘That’d be great.’

After letting Mrs Deakin know she was going with Bill, they both changed out of their work clothes and took a taxi. Bill was still pale when they pulled up in front of the hospital, possibly even paler, but whether it was the prospect of entering the place, or the uncertain fate of his nephew, or even the wrath of his sister, was anyone’s guess. Perhaps a combination of all three.

A modern building, Chelsea & Westminster hospital featured a marbled atrium, white walls and an upward view of a glass-covered roof. Works of art some twenty feet tall were strung across internal garden areas, and only the wheelchairs and dressing gowns gave away that this was a hospital and not a museum of modern art.

That and a god awful cocktail of smelly bodies and disinfectant. Helen wrinkled her nose.

On the ward they found Jim in a bed with his leg plastered and in a sling, and wearing a glum expression on his face.

‘Jimbo, my lad, glad to see you’re okay.’

‘Okay?’ Jim whined. ‘I’ve only gone and broken me bleedin’ leg, and you think I’m all right?’

‘It could’ve been worse, the way you drive.’

Jim sent Helen a funereal smile. ‘So the old gaffer managed to drag you down here with him? ’Fraid of hospitals, he is. Are you gonna have a go at me too?’

‘Not unless you want me to.’ Helen sat down on the end of the bed.

After Bill and Jim had gone over every detail of the accident, Jim said, ‘It’s me job I’m worried about. I’m gonna lose it if I don’t get someone to cover for me.’

‘I know someone who might stand in for you while you’re in hospital. I’ll ask my au— er, Ms Walcott if you like.’ Bill’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Thanks, you’re a mate,’ said Jim.

‘I don’t think she’ll care who’s doing the job as long as someone is.’

‘Yeah, people like that don’t know who does the real work.’ Jim went gloomy again. ‘They drive around in their fancy cars and go to fancy board meetings while the rest of us work our arses off. To them I’m just a nobody.’

Bill said nothing, but kept his eyes on Helen, and she read the mixture of horror and amusement in them as if he’d discovered the missing link.

Talk about putting your foot in it. Or rather a scuffed Doc Marten boot.

‘I should’ve known,’ said Bill when they left the hospital. ‘You have your mother’s chin.’

Helen sent him a sideways look as they crossed the road. ‘The cat’s out of the bag, then.’

‘The cat most certainly is.’ Bill stopped in the middle of the road and got hooted at. Ignoring the irate driver, he swept her up in a bear hug, swung her around, then put her down again as if she was made of porcelain, wiped his eyes on a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. ‘To think you came back, after all that.’

‘I have a stake in the company, as it happens.’

‘My, my, Mimi’s daughter. You know, I knew your mother from when she was this high.’ Bill put his hand out at around hip height. ‘That little love was always with her father. Sitting on his desk, painting and drawing while he worked. Pretty as a picture. Never knew her mother, as far as I recall.’

That makes two of us, thought Helen. Why did people insist on creating this fiction that a relationship between a widowed father and his daughter was something enchanted when in reality not having a mother was a pretty shitty situation for a little girl to be in?