The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) (14 page)

‘And have my interests been safeguarded, as you put it?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘What about the monthly allowance?’

‘Came out of your inheritance from your mother. The rest was put in trust for you until your twenty-fifth year, which is now.’

‘If the allowance came out of my inheritance, why did Aggie go on pretending the money came from her? It doesn’t make any sense.’

Sweetman put his mug on the desk. ‘There are a lot of things in life which don’t make sense,’ he said, and his previous supercilious manner seemed to have been replaced by kindness of sorts. ‘If I know anything about human nature, I’d say your grandmother did it because she wanted you to feel you had a link with the family. You may have resented it as patronising handouts, but at least it signalled that there was someone who cared, if only from a distance.’

‘But I’m not her relative.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you want to split hairs, in the eyes of the law you’re not, but people aren’t governed entirely by legalities, are they? We see that time and time again.’

‘Since you’re such an expert on human nature, what governs Aggie, then?’

‘If you really don’t know that, then you’re more stupid than I thought!’ he replied hotly.

Helen glared at him, but his words had found their mark. She fought hard to hang on to her old anger, that familiar feeling, but it was too tiring. Her shoulders slumped.

I’m not ready for this, she thought. She didn’t want to believe Aggie had real feelings for her, only to find out it wasn’t true.

Could she trust Sweetman? He was Aggie’s representative and probably didn’t move a muscle without consulting her. Aggie had broken Helen’s trust before. There was no one she could rely on, apart from herself.

‘How much did my mother leave me?’

Sweetman smiled, the twinkle in his eye telling her he understood she wasn’t in this for the money.

‘Well, there was the sale of her house and contents when she … when she died. I have a list by the way. She had a substantial inheritance from her father, Mr Ransome, and she was hard-working. Without the papers in front of me, I’d guesstimate it somewhere in the region of the half million mark, give or take a few grand.’

Half a million.

In ready cash, on top of her dividends.

Helen’s mouth fell open. All that money, and she never knew.

Anger rose in her. ‘Why was I never told? I grew up in a children’s home and then foster homes. It was bloody miserable! Oh, yes, there was enough to eat and a roof over my head, but if I’d had that money, I could’ve had a nicer life. I could’ve … I don’t know, paid someone to look after me maybe, or Aggie could have paid someone with my money. I could’ve had a proper home!’

‘You can’t buy love no matter how much money you have,’ said Sweetman, and there was genuine pity in his voice.

‘Well, screw you!’ Helen clenched her fists in her lap to stop herself from hitting him.

‘Sorry, no can do. I’m a married man.’

‘Screw you anyway,’ she muttered.

‘If it’s any consolation, I suspect your grandmother had her reasons for placing you in a children’s home.’

‘Yeah, like what?’

‘
That
is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.’

Her anger abated, and she kept her eyes on him while finishing her coffee. His gaze never wavered, but stayed fixed on her until she was the one who had to look away.

‘My mother,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know anything at all? Anything about the murder, or the court case?’

He shook his head. ‘It was before my time as your grandmother’s legal representative. You’ll have to speak to the police.’ He rose and rummaged in one of the filing cabinets, then returned to the desk and handed Helen a large brown envelope as well as a manila folder.

‘In the envelope you’ll find a countersigned copy of your mother’s will and that list of contents I mentioned. The file, well, you’d better see for yourself.’

Helen opened the file as if it was a bomb about to explode in her face. Inside were several pages of newspaper clippings relating to Mimi’s murder. It was like a step back in time, a window into a past she hardly remembered. Perhaps this was a chance for her to put together the pieces of who she was.

She sent Sweetman a questioning glance.

‘Before you ask, no, I didn’t compile it,’ he said. ‘Your grandmother did. She placed it in my care a few months ago, at the same time she asked me to find you. She thought you might like it.’

‘Why couldn’t she give it to me herself?’

‘She’s quite unwell, you know. Maybe she didn’t think she’d get an opportunity. Who knows? I personally haven’t the faintest idea. Your grandmother is an enigma, but I expect you’ve worked that out for yourself.’

‘May I keep it?’

‘Of course. It’s yours. To do with what you want. Burn it, treasure it, colour it in, whatever takes your fancy.’

‘Reopen the case?’

Sweetman chuckled. ‘On the basis of newspaper clippings? I doubt it, but who am I to tell? I’m not a criminal lawyer.’ Heaving a sigh, he looked at her with his chubby chin resting on his hands. ‘To use the sort of psychobabble my wife is overly fond of, Mrs Ransome has long suspected you of needing closure. Maybe this will help.’

‘What if it doesn’t?’

‘Then I hope you’ll think before you act,’ he said.

Chapter Nine

When she left Sweetman’s office, she spent a little time taking in the ambience of the area, browsing the garish pavement displays and breathing in the spicy aromas from various food vans. A man on a street corner handed her a flyer for cheap foreign phone calls, Indian pop music droned from an open doorway somewhere nearby.

She stopped to stare at a jeweller’s display which sparkled with an unearthly light. Indian jewellery had always both fascinated and repelled her. It was too sophisticated to be called bling, but just as ostentatious, and the prices in the window made her almost queasy.

I can afford things like that now, she thought, but knew she’d never dream of buying it. Cold stones and metal like that belonged in Aggie’s and Letitia’s world, not hers. There had to be a better way for her to spend her new-found wealth.

On the bus she hung onto her bag tight, resisting the pull of the folder because she wanted to be somewhere without distractions and the risk of anyone looking over her shoulder.

Until last night all she’d remembered was Fay bending over her mother, covered in blood, and that she’d had a seizure. But then Fay had reminded her of the sequinned bag. Who knew what sort of memories the contents of this folder would trigger?

The house was quiet when she got back. Charlie was signing on at the local Job Centre today, and Fay must have gone to the market. The door to Jason’s basement room stood open, but a quick glance told Helen he wasn’t in either. She heard Lee’s door closing on the top floor when she went to change into more casual clothes, and she decided to read the file in the kitchen.

The kitchen was baking hot. She threw open the doors, enjoying the way the gentle breeze played with her hair and the sound of the bees droning lazily in the jasmine bush which was in full flower. The grass, which hadn’t been mowed in a while, was springy and soft when Helen crossed to the bush and broke off a stalk of jasmine. The flower’s heady scent reminded her of India.

One of Fay’s stray cats was sunning itself on the shed roof. When a dog barked somewhere in a neighbouring garden, it didn’t move a whisker, although Helen dropped the flower with a start. Picking it up again, a flash of memory swept through her.

A dog had been there that morning, a big brown one, the breed she didn’t know. It had played in the leaves, and she remembered how she’d longed to play too, to kick and toss the leaves high in the air, but couldn’t because she was stuck in the car.

If a dog had been there, the dog owner had been there too. He or she must have seen something. Had they come forward, helped convict Fay?

Sighing, she went back inside, dropped the flower in a jam jar with some water, and put the kettle on.

Tea in hand, she sat down on the sofa and opened the folder, which had been arranged like a scrap book with newspaper articles stuck in it. The first article, with a photo of her mother, was from a tabloid newspaper.

Mother Murdered with 5-Year-Old Daughter in Car

A 34-year-old woman was found stabbed to death in the front seat of her car in the early hours of October the 12th. The victim, identified as Mimi Stephanov, was discovered at 6.35 a.m. on Ealing Common.

Police were alerted to the scene by a 999 call made by the postal worker who found the body. Mrs Stephanov’s 5-year-old daughter, who had been asleep on the back seat, was in shock but appeared otherwise unharmed.

Investigators say Mrs Stephanov was bleeding from a stab wound in her throat. Emergency services responded and pronounced her dead at the scene.

‘I’m totally shaken,’ said Darren Morris, a Royal Mail employee. ‘I cross the Common every day to do my rounds, and you don’t get a quieter neighbourhood than this.’

Authorities are holding a 37-year-old woman for questioning. Neighbours talk of recent disturbances near the victim’s home, and that the woman held in custody had been harassing Mrs Stephanov.

There were several articles from different newspapers reporting the story in the same factual terms, others dealing with the court case, one long article detailing the history of the family company, plus a snippet from a trade magazine which commented on the company’s recent quotation on the stock exchange.

On the 15th of December the family-run auction house Ransome & Daughters, with offices in London’s Mayfair district, began trading on the London Stock Exchange small business section for the first time in the company’s short, but hitherto extremely successful, history.

The article went on to talk about share prices and expected turnover, and Helen skipped to the end.

This comes only two months after the tragic demise of founder William Ransome’s only child, Mimi Stephanov, who was killed by a one-time friend.

A spokesperson for the company, Bill Collins, gave the following statement: ‘It’s been a difficult time for all of us. Naturally we’re delighted that the company is doing so well, but the loss of a member of the Ransome family and one of our most dedicated co-workers has been a terrible blow.’

She read the newspaper clippings through once, then dropped the file in her lap and stared out into the garden. The dog was still barking next door, the timbre of his voice suggesting it was a large dog.

Her mother’s life, and her own too, compressed to a series of stills reported as bare facts. There was no mention of the incredible upheaval in Helen’s young life or what sort of person her mother was. Or at least the person Helen assumed she was from her fragmented memories.

She wished she hadn’t read the articles. The factual clippings and just the one photo of Mimi meant that her mother now only existed in a vacuum, beginning and ending her life in a tragic murder.

She wanted to weep, but her brain had other ideas. Her eyelids flickered, and her hands twitched. Outside, falling jasmine petals hung suspended in the air, and sounds rang out from the far end of a very long, dark tunnel. Another seizure was slowly squeezing her.

I don’t care any more, she thought. Despite the familiar terror which sent her heart racing, she felt herself slipping away.

Just let me die this time …

Jason came in the kitchen in time to see Helen knocking over a cup of tea. ‘Mind out,’ he said.

She lolled her head sideways, roughly in his direction but he got the feeling that she didn’t really see him. Her expression was vacant and twisted as if she was suffering discomfort or even pain. Instinctively he put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Are you all right?’

She didn’t answer. Instead she blinked rapidly several times, or rather her eyelids quivered, involuntarily. Slowly life returned to her eyes, her focus realigned itself, and she squirmed under his hand. He removed it but remained standing in front of her. Something wasn’t right. In fact, something was way off the chart.

‘You okay?’ he asked again.

‘Mm?’

‘You just knocked over your tea,’ he said.

Only then did she seem to notice the overturned mug and a mud-coloured puddle by her feet. Picking it up, slowly almost painfully, she said, ‘Sorry, I must’ve dropped off.’

‘That boring, is it?’ Jason grinned and pointed to the open folder on her lap.

Helen reached for the folder, sluggishly, then closed it and clutched it to her chest as if she was afraid he’d snatch it off her.

‘Abysmal,’ she said and stood up to put the empty mug on the draining board.

‘Are you sure you’re okay? Because you’ve gone all pale and twitchy.’ His eyes searched hers, seeking the truth. But seeking the truth with Helen Stephens was like catching a slippery bar of soap in the bath.

What had he just seen? She hadn’t dozed off. Dozing off looked different. He’d had a school friend once who had absences like that, but Simon was an epileptic. Did Helen have the same telltale signs of a seizure? Jason hadn’t seen Simon in years, and anyway the signs could be difficult to spot unless you knew what you were looking for.

‘Yeah. I’m fine … fine.’

‘Sure?’ He didn’t know why he kept asking that, but it seemed important to keep her talking.

‘No, really I’m okay, just tired,’ she said. She looked at the tea on the floor. ‘I’d better clean this up. Have we got a mop and a bucket anywhere?’

‘In the cupboard. Why don’t you let me do this? You look like you need to sit down.’

She sent him a testy look. ‘I’m fine. I can do it.’

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour and sit down. I don’t mind, honest.’

‘No.’

‘God, you’re stubborn! Sit down, for Christ’s sake.’