The Stepmother(108)

 

 

 

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Peter 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 f*cking 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?’