The Stepmother (26 page)

Yassine won’t say any more about why Kaye told him to say he wasn’t there; he claims he doesn’t really understand. He’s extremely uncomfortable, that’s obvious. But he does tell me he’s moving out of Kaye’s for a bit.

‘They need some time,’ he says, but I get the sense that he wants out of there, and frankly I don’t blame him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats yet again. ‘It was wrong, and I feel ashamed for my lie.’ His English is very formal, and I tell him not to worry. I don’t want to alienate him – though it’s a pisser. It certainly didn’t help Jeanie, did it? It just made her think she was crazy.

All of these lies.

S
outh Beds News Agency
is the most local to here. I put a call in.

‘I’m trying to find out about an incident with a Lisa Daisy Bedford, sometime in early 2014,’ I make a stab at the date. It can’t have been that long before Matthew met Jeanie – it has to be in-between Kaye leaving and him dating Jeanie. ‘Nothing is coming up on my searches, but I understand the accident was bad enough for her to have been hospitalised.’

As I hang up, the schoolgirls from the sweet shop hurry into the café, all flicky eyeliner and over-pierced ears.

I wave at them, and they rush over to my table, eyes boggling.

‘We did try, but we couldn’t tell her to come, cos she got picked up early,’ the taller one breathes, full of her own importance.

‘Oh yeah?’
Shit.
‘By her mum?’

‘No!’ Cornrows chews her gum ferociously. ‘We weren’t sure, cos we were in the common room when it happened, but Sherry Noyce said they reckon it was by her dad!’

If that’s true,
I think,
there must be no charges.
The school wouldn’t release her to him if he’d been charged.

If
they knew it was him collecting her of course.

‘Sherry gave me her number. I texted your number to her,’ the tall one says proudly. ‘To Scarlett, I mean. Said you were worried.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ I say, feeling more worried now.

And I have another feeling, as I gather my things and thank the girls.

The other feeling, one that’s growing all the time, is that this was never about Jeanie.

That Jeanie maybe just got in the way.

I
’m thinking
that if I can’t get to Scarlett yet, there’s one other person I really want to talk to.

The news agency calls me back as I’m waiting for another cab.

‘Marlena Randall? I don’t have anything for you on Lisa Daisy Bedford, but I
can
tell you why you can’t find owt.’ The woman is a bored Mancunian. ‘There’s an injunction on the story.’

‘Injunction?’ My ears prick up. I love an injunction: it always means there’s buried trouble. ‘Do you have any more details?’

‘You know perfectly well I’ll be in contempt of court if I tell you anything.’

‘Ah come on…’

‘Come on, yourself. You might be Old Bill for all I know.’

‘I’m not,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I’m a journalist.’

‘Yeah, I know who you are.’ She sniffs. ‘I recognise your name.’

‘Well then, you know I’m not police. And I’m paying for this…’

‘Why don’t you ask the lawyer who applied for it then?’ she suggests. ‘There was a minor involved; the name wasn’t ever released.’

‘Who was the lawyer?’

‘Day and Young, it says here.
Tenth of March 2014,’ she tells me. And then, tartly, ‘That’s all you’re getting, love.’ She hangs up.

Day?
Why does that name ring a bell?

Appetite whetted, I need to find this girl Daisy – and fast. I text Robo with her name, saying I need an address within the hour.

In the meantime, I contemplate going back to the house – but will Matthew be there now? I never found the home movie before I was interrupted – and I badly want to know what it was that Jeanie thought she saw.

And anyway I want to hear what he’s got to say for myself – my sister’s husband. What excuse Matthew has for doubting Jeanie, for believing whoever it was that was trying to damage her, over his own new wife, who loved him so deeply. For not seeing she was being manipulated by someone who had it in for her…

And then I think of Alison Day’s words earlier, that maybe Matthew was only using her anyway.

Alison
Day
! Of course!

So Day of Day and Young must be her husband, Sean – and he got the injunction for Matthew King.

Before I can make my next move, which is probably to go back to Malum House to challenge Matthew King – Robo’s texted back.

I call the number Robo has sent me. There’s just an automated voicemail with no name, so I leave a very polite message asking to be called back.

Then I go back to the King house.

I
n the avenue
there’s a tired-looking reporter sitting outside Malum House in a battered old Vauxhall, reading a paperback, and a photographer in a camouflage jacket and cap, leaning on a lamp post, drinking Dr Pepper and texting.

I drive past and down the road slightly.

As I’m parking, a white Range Rover pulls into the drive. I know that the Range Rover is Kaye’s, and so I’m guessing this will mean fireworks. But maybe, I think, feeling almost excited, this is the opportune moment to confront Matthew.
Get it all out in the open…

By the time I hurry across the road, past the two reporters, who are now out on the pavement by the gate, whoever has just arrived has gone inside. I see there’s also a big black car parked half in, half out of the open garage, and I open the garden gate.

I hurry up the path with voices ringing in my ears – ‘Oi, love, hang on a sec!’ – and I feel extremely uncomfortable. The hunter turned prey: all the times
I’ve
been that insistent voice, shouting at others, begging for their story, whatever their emotional state…

The curtains are pulled at the lounge window, the one that Alison Day knocked on earlier to alarm me.

I go into the open garage, past the black car, and through it, and sure enough, there’s a door into the garden at the far end.

In the back garden I creep along the flowerbed until I am adjacent with the patio doors – and I see two figures standing in the kitchen – two figures embracing.

If it wasn’t a bloody cliché, I’d double take.

Matthew King – and his ex-wife, Kaye.

Matthew King and Kaye with their arms round each other, and as I stop in my tracks and stare, my mouth agape, she reaches up and kisses him on the lips.

Jesus wept
.

So what do I do now?

Do I run screaming forward and yell at them –
you traitors
? Or do I leave quietly and regroup?

You may think I should plump for the former, but I choose the latter. I need to get my head round this, and I need to collate all the evidence I’m gleaning, and I need to try and work out
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON.

As I retreat down the garden and slip back into the garage, I see a face at an upper window, a pale face, and I think it’s Scarlett at first, and then I think no, it’s the boy. I find myself putting my finger to my lips.

Who am I kidding?

I get the hell out of Dodge.

I
’ve booked
myself a room at the Penny Farthing Inn on the high street. It’s quite gastro and chichi, but I’m beyond caring. I dump my bag, and then I go out and buy myself a bottle of vodka, some tonic, a portion of chips and a pad of A4 paper.

I eat the chips sitting on the bed, then I ring the hospital again. Still no change. And still nothing from Frank.

I pour myself a warm vodka and tonic in the toothbrush beaker, and I lay my own notebook and Jeanie’s two diaries out on the table in the corner, and I use the paper to try to make sense of what the hell’s gone on here.

And so what I’m wondering now, what I’m faced with, is – if Kaye and Matthew are in cahoots, was Jeanie just collateral damage?

Was Jeanie just about whatever the financial thing was that Alison mentioned? I get the idea Matthew’s finances weren’t quite what he was making out – that he was in some kind of bother…

Or is it more sinister than that?

The tepid vodka slows my thought processes.

Lying on the bed, exhausted and gutted, I have an idea that Jeanie simply got involved with a man not over his first wife – and it’s as straightforward as that.

The only way I will have any idea of the truth, I realise, is by confronting Matthew. But before I can think about how to achieve that, my phone buzzes.

‘It’s Peter Bedford, Daisy’s dad. You left a message?’

P
eter Bedford is a short
, thickset man with greying hair, sad eyes and a bald spot. He reminds me of a dog; I’m just not sure which breed. A Staffie maybe. He’s wary, most suspicious of me – but I explain that I only want to understand what happened to Daisy because of Jeanie’s apparent suicide attempt. Bedford seems kind of shocked when I give him the details – shocked that she’s in the hospital, that is – but not all that surprised.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, in that way with which men often deal with upset. Not head-on.

But then let’s face it, who am I to judge?

‘Fancy a drink, Peter?’ I ask, and he nods. ‘Yeah, all right. Cheers.’

We cross the road to the pub opposite, and I buy him a pint, ordering coffee for myself. For once the vodka didn’t help anything. That’s a first in my book.

‘So your sister married Matthew King?’ he says and wipes the froth off his top lip. He has a broad West Country accent. ‘Good luck to her.’

‘Yeah, well she’s not had much of that.’ I stir sugar into my coffee, even though I don’t normally take sugar. ‘If it had gone okay, I wouldn’t be here now. And I wonder – can you tell me, I mean, I know it’s probably not linked – but what
did
happen to your daughter?’

The man drinks half his pint in one go. He bangs the glass down, and then he looks at first the ceiling then at me, as if I were the guilty party.

‘That fucking kid ran her over.’

‘What?’ I can’t believe my ears. ‘Scarlett did? Ran her over?’

‘No.’ He glares at me with his hangdog droopy eyes. ‘Not the girl. The lad.’

Luke.

‘Jesus!’ I’m pretty stunned. ‘God, I’m sorry. How – is she all right now?’

‘Not really.’ He shrugs, picks his pint up again with thick fingers. ‘She’s walking at least. But she’s not the same girl; not yet anyway.’

‘I’m really sorry. Can I ask then – how did it happen?’

‘They swore it was an accident. They’d gone away for the weekend, the kids, that bloody Matthew bloke and he’d taken Dais to look after ’em – gone to Norfolk to a country place. The kid was allowed to drive the car, that’s what they said anyway. They was on private land, and he backed it into Daisy. Didn’t see her, he claimed.’

‘Who didn’t? Luke?’

‘Yeah. Cos she was running after the bloody dog. And she can barely remember what happened. All a blur, she always said, when the police got involved.’

‘So there was going to be a prosecution? I mean it was going to go to court and then…?’

‘Then it got dropped. Don’t ask me why, it beat us. But we had the idea Matthew King was – well connected, shall we say.’ Peter Bedford looked bitter now. ‘He did pay for all her medical treatment at least, King. Paid for Dais to go to America. She’s…’ He hunts for the word. ‘Rejuvenating.’

Recuperating I think he means – but I don’t correct him.

‘That’s good,’ I say hopefully. It’s no solace apparently.

‘But what I want to know is why was he allowed to do that anyway? Drive a big bloody car like that, a little kid like that?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly. The man’s pain is palpable. ‘But why do you think it was deliberate?’

‘Because. Daisy’d already said the kids was messed up. Their mother was a nutter apparently.’

‘Really?’ My ears prick up again.

‘Yeah, leaving her kids like that. Dais only stayed cos she felt sorry for ’em.’ He’s anticipated my next question. ‘Them kids. She’s a soft touch, my Daisy. And’—he finished the last swill of his drink—‘cos of that bloke, I s’pose.’

This admission seems to pain him even more, but of course it’s what I need to know.

‘Matthew King you mean? Why? What was their relationship?’

‘What you getting at?’ he snaps. It’s too much for him, and I wince at myself. I know better than this. Don’t tread on the emotions of the bereaved or devastated.
Softly, softly
…

‘Sorry. I just mean…’ What
do
I mean though? How can I phrase it without further offending him? ‘I mean how
did
they get on, Daisy and Matthew? Could you say?’

Were they sleeping together?
That’s what I really mean of course.

‘He liked her a lot. Too much, I thought. He was way too old for her though.’ Bedford scowls, fleshy jowls creasing. ‘He’s not much younger’n me, that bugger. But I don’t think that mattered to ’im. I mean’—now he pulls an outraged face—‘did you see what they said in the paper? About the bloke?’

‘I’m not sure it’s been proven though,’ I try to reassure him. ‘I think it might be a mistake.’

‘I bloody well hope so.’ He brightens slightly. ‘Do you want to see her? She’s beautiful, my Daisy.’

‘I’d love to,’ I reply truthfully. I’m more than intrigued.

Her father gets a battered old photo out of his wallet; it’s a school photo perhaps, creased and folded. The girl has long blonde hair and a nice smile, but what’s rather spooky, I think, is her resemblance to Kaye.

‘Beautiful,’ I say, though she’s not particularly, if I’m honest. I pass it back. ‘I’m glad she’s all right.’ She’s beautiful to him, naturally. As all children are meant to be to their parents, only…

It doesn’t always work like that, does it?

Peter Bedford zips his old wax jacket up. ‘I wish she’d never gone there, to that bloody scary house. Never liked it, she said, used to creep her out.’

‘Why?’

‘All them dark windows and corners. Whispering walls, she used to say. She heard voices in the night. And them graves in the garden. You wanna ask that King bloke – how the hell did
they
get there?’