The Silent Girls (17 page)

Matt stood as Edie walked into the room, her features showing hurt, confusion and betrayal. Sophie sat slumped, her face turned away from the door, though when Matt glanced at her he could see that she was biting her lip. ‘Edie!’

‘Yes, Edie. Would anyone mind explaining what you’re doing here? Sophie?’ Edie said, lips pursed, tone racketing up to angry.

‘I called over to apologise for upsetting you, Sophie invited me in. It’s not her fault, she wasn’t aware that we’d argued.’ Matt said, knowing that it was as lame an excuse as they came.

Edie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh really? She invited you into Dolly’s bedroom? Is there something I should know, Sophie?’

Matt stood silent for a moment, he had only just noticed the dress that Edie was wearing. Could it be the same one? ‘Where did you get that dress from?’

Edie looked at him, frustrated, impatient, getting more annoyed by the second. ‘What? You push your way into this house, take advantage of a young girl and you ask about my bloody dress?’

Bloody dress was more appropriate than she might have realised, though it was obvious that any blood had been washed away long ago. ‘Only it’s not your dress.’ He said.

Edie stiffened. ‘Gah! For God’s sake, what does the dress matter? I want to know what you’re doing here, and why you, Sophie, saw fit to let someone into the house without my permission!’

‘We were looking for something.’ Sophie mumbled.

‘Looking for what? And what – in this God forsaken house – could possibly interest you, Mr Bastin?’

Matt sighed. ‘I’ll go.’ Women scorned were not his forte, and though Edie hadn’t entirely lost control, she did look pretty pissed off.

‘Yes, I think that would be a very good idea.’ Edie’s response was stiff and made Matt feel as though he had seriously burned the last of his bridges with her.

For some reason the thought of him leaving seemed to galvanise Sophie, who stood up and turned to Edie. ‘No, let him stay. There’s stuff you need to know.’

‘And what precisely might that be Sophie? That I trusted you and you let me down at the first opportunity?’

It was Sophie’s turn to stiffen and battle with her temper. Matt needed to intervene, he needed to try and explain, if she threw him out afterwards, then so be it. ‘You need to know that the dress you’re wearing belonged to Elizabeth Rees, she was murdered – you’ve probably heard of her – she was found naked, raped and mutilated on a park bench in the square. Her clothes were never found, but I have a photograph of her wearing her best dress, the one she was wearing when she disappeared, and it’s identical to that one.’

Edie peered at him through narrowed eyelids, her brow furrowed in confusion.

‘And the locket that you gave to Sophie, it belonged to Sally Pollett, she was wearing it on the day she disappeared, then there’s the scarf that you threw away – it all fits Edie, someone in the house was responsible for the deaths of those girls.’

Sophie was hovering, pensive and worried. ‘There’s stuff you don’t know about Edie, we were just trying to help.’

A series of expressions flickered across Edie’s face as she did battle with her thoughts and feelings, for Matt it was like watching a pinball machine, the ball bearing of reason coming to rest at the only logical conclusion, then pinging off because the reality was too inconceivable for comfort. She stood like that for a long moment then she looked down at the dress. Without a word she turned and fled to the bathroom. Matt heard the bolt slide across the door and turned to Sophie. ‘I think you’d better go and put the kettle on, I don’t suppose there’s any brandy lying around is there?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Is she going to be all right?’

Matt returned the shrug and pointed towards the stairs. ‘Shall we?’

Edie sat on the lid of the toilet wearing just her bra and knickers, the dress lay in a colourful puddle on the grimy floor. She looked at it with a mixture of dismay and loathing. It couldn’t be right, it just couldn’t be. If her family had been involved in those murders the police would have known, they would have worked it out and investigated, they did all of those things and caught the culprit. It was clear that Matt Bastin wanted it not to have been his father, but it had been. Dresses were dresses, chances are Dolly had just bought the same one from a market stall or a local shop –Matt Bastin was barking up the wrong tree and causing a lot of upset because of it. Sure, she understood, who wouldn’t want to distance themselves from that kind of family history, she knew for a fact that his life hadn’t been easy because of what his father had done, but trying to pass the parcel of blame to someone else was just pathetic. And unfair, deeply unfair. Who on earth did he think had done it? Dolly had been a sweet, eccentric gentle soul, obsessed with her wigs. It was clear that she’d had her magpie tendencies, lining her nest with whatever kitsch she could lay her hands on, but they were hardly the signs of a murderous soul. Perhaps he though it had been Dickie, an even quieter soul than his sister and only happy on his own, away from others and making his little mechanical toys. From what Edie could remember of her, Beattie has been a stoic, withdrawn and harsh woman – God-fearing, resolute and the least likely mass murderer Edie could bring to mind. The whole thing was ridiculous; Matt had just picked a scapegoat and had moulded things to fit. A dress proved nothing, neither did a locket, or a scarf for that matter; all of those things were ten a penny.

She prodded the dress with her foot and bent to pick it up, as if handling the fabric might yield some truth by means of psychometry. She put it to her face and breathed in, it smelled of age, camphor and fabric freshener. She had stripped it off so quickly it was still inside out, the neatly finished seams holding their colour where the other fabric had not. They were hand finished, turned and stitched in a precise and meticulous hand by someone who had taken pride in their work. This dress had not been bought; it had been made. The hem was held up with tiny, almost invisible stitches, the buttonholes were exquisitely done, all by hand. It was unique, a one off. The realisation of it forced Edie to fling it away from her and wipe her face on the still damp flannel that lay on the edge of the bath, as if the gesture could erase the contact with the fabric. As the dress fell, she spotted the yoke – where the label would be in a shop bought dress, there were two carefully embroidered initials –
ER
. Edie’s world seemed to lurch to the side, she felt dizzy and disorientated, as if everything she knew had shifted position and looked ugly and unfamiliar in its new place. The wine she had drunk with Sam roiled in her stomach, meshing with the watery salad and announcing its re-arrival with a painful, unstoppable yaw of retching.

Sophie hovered on the landing, she had been about to tap on the bathroom door when she heard the retching. ‘Edie? You OK?’ It was a stupid question, of course she wasn’t OK, who would be? ‘I’ve made some tea, are you coming down?’

There was silence from the bathroom. Instinct and good sense told Sophie to leave well alone and beat a retreat. Matt had gone out to the shop – spirit wise all they had found was a crusted bottle of syrupy crème de menthe and some rather dubious looking advocaat. Sophie figured that drinking either would cause more shock than it cured. When she got back to the kitchen he was back and sloshing cheap whisky into Edie’s tea. ‘How is she?’ he asked.

Sophie shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Dunno, she won’t answer me.’

They both raised their eyes to the ceiling at the noise of the bathroom door creaking open and Edie’s soft footsteps on the landing. A few seconds later she arrived in the kitchen wearing her old favourite jeans and T-shirt and carrying the dress, she looked pale and worn. She threw the balled up dress on the table and took the mug that Matt was holding out to her, she sipped the tea and winced. ‘Jesus! That’s bloody awful! What did you do, pee in it for good measure?’

Sophie stifled a laugh. ‘Whisky, for shock,’ she said, receiving a scathing look for her trouble.

Edie sat down on one of the rickety kitchen chairs, leaned back, folded her arms and looked at them, each in turn as if she was weighing up which planet they had both just beamed down from. ‘I think an explanation is in order, don’t you?’

Sophie looked at Matt, who returned her stare. ‘Well, go on, this is your baby, you tell her.’ Sophie said.

Chapter Twelve

Sam was angry. He didn’t know whether it was with his own stupidity and over-confidence, or with Edie and her good-as-gold obstinacy. All he knew was that he was livid, and someone would have to pay. It hadn’t helped when he’d slammed in to Number 15 only to be faced with his mother whelping on about Johnno getting too big for his boots and throwing his weight about, what did Sam care? Johnno was just hired muscle, as thick as two short planks. Sam rarely gave him a second thought, and cared even less what he did – as long as the man did his job, kept the girls in line and paid what he owed, Sam was happy. Whether the idiot was harassing young girls and upsetting Lena was none of his concern. Not today anyway. It bothered him that his mother was upset, of course it did – mainly because he had to listen to her litany of complaints and make sympathetic noises at her so that she would wind it in quicker. ‘All right Mum, point taken, I’ll have a word OK?’ he said finally, hoping that it would bring an end to the incessant tirade. ‘Johnno’s an idiot, we already knew that, he just needs reining in from time to time. Anyway, what’s it to you? Since when have you cared about the scumbags that litter the square? I thought you’d be happy that he was seeing off the rubbish?’

That seemed to shut her up, she just glared at him, lips set firm into a hard line. ‘I’ve just had enough, that’s all,’ she said. He could swear it had come through gritted teeth.

Sam watched her as she shuffled over to her chair, her gait stiff and proud, inserted herself between the soft cushions and reached for the remote control. She looked upset, as near to tears as he had ever seen her. Lena Campion rarely cried, so the look on her face came as a shock. When he thought about it, which he didn’t often he had to admit, she hadn’t been right since that old bat next door had popped her clogs. She hadn’t even been this rattled when his father had died – had seemed to consider it a blessed release, if anything. Sam couldn’t blame her; his old man had been an asshole of epic proportions, a drinker and a bully, all mouth and trousers. Not many had mourned him. Sam least of all.

His mother was now flicking through the channels of the TV, stabbing at the buttons of the remote control impatiently, as if pushing them harder would produce something on the screen more worthy of her attention. He’d never had time for TV himself, his mind went too fast for it, and the soaps just pissed him off. She loved them though. He didn’t know why, unless watching other people manufacture drama made her own life more interesting. It wasn’t as if she’d ever done anything with her life. Just put up with things, made endless pots of tea and sat watching the world go on around her. His mother was like one of the ravens at the tower of London, her dogged attachment to the square felt like she’d had her wings clipped to stop her flying away. Just like the ravens, if Lena Campion ever left the square, everything it had ever been would sink without trace. To Sam she was like the last bastion of respectability and old-fashioned values, and he’d exploited that and used her as a human shield for a very long time.

‘What are you staring at. The cat’s mother?’ she said, not even looking round at him but proving yet again that she had eyes in the back of her head.

‘Nothing, just thinking.’

Lena had settled on a film, some weepy old black and white thing that would drive Sam nuts if he had to sit and watch it.

‘Well, think more quietly, you’re putting me on edge with you moods.’

She hadn’t even looked at him. ‘My moods? Take a look at yourself Mother, you’ve been like a box of frogs lately. Ever since Edie turned up you’ve been all over the place. What’s wrong with you?’

Lena shrugged and turned up the volume.

Edie was reeling, her mind doing somersaults – the information that Matt was feeding her flipped and turned as it bounced off the trampoline of reason up into the clouds of surrealism. Much as everything he was telling her all came to roost on Number 17’s doorstep, she just couldn’t accept that the police would have missed it all and that when they had connected the dots they had come up with the wrong picture.

‘I just don’t get it. I accept what you’re telling me Matt, and yes if what you say is true, everything points towards this house, but why didn’t the police pick up on it, surely they weren’t that incompetent?’

Matt snorted. ‘You’d be surprised. For instance, as recently as the West case they were getting things wrong – They’d had several reports of attacks on women and allegations of child abuse levelled at the family, yet look what happened there? We’re talking about the fifties and sixties in this case, they got a lot wrong. They hung Timothy Evans for killing his wife and child, never once suspecting Christie; even when they found the bodies in the outhouse they were completely oblivious to the fact that the garden fence was being propped up with a human femur.’

Edie shuddered and closed her eyes. ‘OK, so let’s say they got this wrong too. Who are you pointing the finger at Matt? Beattie? Dolly? Dickie?’

It was Matt’s turn to look away, he was fumbling with the lid on the bottle of whisky, as if he was about to unscrew it and take a slug of Dutch courage. ‘No, not them, though I do think Beattie is the link.’

‘If not them, then who? And what do you mean, Beattie is the link?’

Matt hesitated, unscrewed the lid on the bottle and did take a swig, wincing as the heat of the spirit hit his gullet. ‘Your father.’

Edie laughed, she couldn’t help it; the idea was ludicrous. ‘My father? Are you serious? My father walked out on my pregnant mother never to be seen again, he was a weak, gutless coward.’

‘Exactly, he was never seen again. There is no trace of him Edie, and believe me I’ve looked.’

‘Well he was hardly likely to keep his own name, besides, I’ve always believed that he went abroad.’