The Dead Ex(22)

‘STOP THAT GIRL,’ she heard someone yelling after her. ‘The black kid with the braids and red beads.’

No! She’d dropped one. Too late to bend down. Running out of the door, she dashed down a corridor. Where should she go now? Dawn hadn’t said.

Then she saw it. A sign. L–A–D–I–E–S.

‘If you ever get into trouble, go to the toilet,’ Mum had always said. ‘Lock yourself in and then scream for help.’

Scarlet shut the first cubicle door behind her. There was shit all over the floor (ugh!) and no toilet paper. Sitting on the seat, she panted with terror. Someone was coming!

‘That one’s occupied,’ said a voice. ‘Take the next one.’

Scarlet waited until the loo had flushed and the footsteps had gone.

Creeping out of the toilets, she started to walk as fast as she could across the centre to the main doors. Round the corner maybe? And down this road here towards McDonald’s? Someone had thrown a bag of chips into the bin outside. Scarlet wolfed them down. There was a park over the road. Some swings. Mum might be there, looking for her. Perhaps they’d let her out of prison by now …

‘There you are!’

It was Dawn.

‘Got the stuff? Good girl. Time to pass them on.’

Scarlet didn’t like to ask what that meant in case Dawn stopped being her friend.

They walked and walked through the rain until they reached a market on the other side of town. It was different from the one where the man used to give Scarlet vegetables. This one had men who didn’t smile or ruffle her hair.

‘I’ll give yer a fiver,’ one of them said to Dawn.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me. These are the latest.’

‘Seven then. Not a penny more. Or I’ll hand the two of you in.’

‘You wouldn’t dare. Or they’ll get you too.’

‘Go home, the pair of you.’

‘Mind your own bloody business.’

‘All right. Eight quid. And that’s yer lot.’

They had to hang around the park for a bit after that until 4 p.m. Then it would look as though they’d been to school. Scarlet was beginning to learn not to question her new friend. You never knew when she was going to be nice or not.

That night, Scarlet stayed very quiet when the ginger-haired boy came into the room. He and Dawn made lots of strange noises, a bit like Mum and the uncles used to.

When the boy left, her friend went straight to sleep. Her snores sang in the dark. Outside, car brakes squealed in the rain. Scarlet tossed and turned in the too-big brown pyjamas which Mrs W had finally found her. When she was little, Mum had taught her to speak to the universe. ‘You can ask for whatever you want,’ she’d told her. ‘Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. So you might as well try.’

‘Please, universe,’ prayed Scarlet, ‘can you fix it so I see Mum? As soon as you can?’

Then, because Mum had always taught her to be polite to everyone (apart from the cops), she added two more words. ‘Thank you.’





9



Vicki


I am still staring at the photograph.

There’s no denying it. There I am. Wearing the same pale-blue high-necked jumper that I am wearing now. Waving a finger at the man standing in front of me.

David.

A red London bus is going past behind us, and the Embankment is clearly visible in the background.

‘You two look as though you’re having a bit of an argument,’ says Inspector Vine. His voice is steady. Balanced. It strikes me that his name is perfect. Vine. Clings tenaciously to whatever support – or clue – it can find. My ex-husband and I used to have a rather lovely Virginia creeper which clambered all over the balcony at the back of the house in Kingston. We spent ages one weekend fixing little green supports onto the wall. David was up the ladder and I was at the bottom, keeping it steady. I remember thinking how good it was to work as a team. I wonder if it’s still secure.

I, on the other hand, am still trying to find something to hang on to.

‘Do you see that Evening Standard placard in the corner?’ he continues. ‘When you enlarge it, the front page shows the date. 30 November 2017. Yet you told me you hadn’t seen your ex-husband since 2013.’

‘Perhaps,’ I say unsteadily, ‘I just forgot. My medication … it affects my memory.’

‘Ah, yes.’ His eyes are cold. ‘We talked about that before, didn’t we, in the hospital. How very convenient.’

‘That isn’t fair.’ Panic is making my throat tight. ‘I need to speak to my solicitor.’

The detective sighs. His breath smells of mints. ‘No solicitor in the world is going to be able to deny this photograph.’ Then his voice softens. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Vicki. I feel for you. I really do. I’m not sure I could deal with it. Not being able to trust my mind. Never knowing when I’m going to have another seizure …’

‘I sometimes get a smell of burning,’ I say suddenly. ‘Just before it happens.’

His eyes light up with interest. ‘Really?’

‘And I’ve got one right now.’

It’s not true, but I can see I’ve scared him.

‘Stress can bring it on.’ I sit down heavily on the sofa. There’s a nervous glance between the two detectives.