Bad Girl (28 page)

Helen drifted in and out of consciousness, sounds clashing and colliding, dreams mingling and merging with a fuzzy, confusing reality. She was faintly aware of people coming and going, of footsteps on lino, of day turning into night and back to day again, but none of it made much sense to her. She was more vividly aware of pain, general pain, and then more specific agonies in her jaw and chest and stomach.

With a groan, she blinked open her eyes and saw the walls of a cool white room. She turned her head to find Moira sitting beside the bed. For a moment, fearing it was the remnant of yet another dream, she said nothing. Moira leaned forward and smiled at her.

‘You’re safe now, love. You’re in hospital. You’re going to be okay.’

Helen peered at her. She could not be real, could not be Moira, because Moira had left a long time ago. She had gone along with Helen’s mother and her father and her grandparents. Tommy had gone, and Frank had gone too. There was no one left. Still, even if the woman was imaginary, she remained a comfort, a warm presence in an empty space.

Helen blinked, feeling a new throbbing pain in her eye sockets. She stirred a little, shifting as much as she dared. Each time she moved, a different part of her sent out a protest. Even her right hand felt heavy and strange. She gazed at the white plaster cast encasing her fingers. A memory was suddenly triggered in her brain – a man’s mouth spitting out obscenities, the weight of his body on hers, the sharp cracking sound as he smashed her hand against the icy ground. No, she could not, would not remember these things. She would close her eyes and make them go away.

It was dark outside when she woke again. The curtains were pulled tight across the window. A thin, watery light illuminated the room, chasing the shadows into corners. She knew now that she was in hospital, that she was connected to a drip, that other tubes were invading her body. Soho, she thought, and immediately shuddered.

‘Helen?’

The voice seemed to come from a long way away. She slowly turned her head. Moira leaned forward, laid a hand gently on her arm. Helen’s mouth was so dry she could barely speak. ‘How… how long have I been here?’

‘A little while,’ Moira said softly. ‘Lie still. Don’t try and talk. You’re going to be fine.’

But although Helen heard the words, she could see something quite different etched on Moira’s face. There was fear and worry and bewilderment. She switched her focus to a thin crack running up the wall. Bad things happen to bad people. That was what her grandmother used to say.

It was a few days more before Helen had recovered enough to understand how severe her injuries had been and how close she’d come to death. By then she was able to sit up and concentrate on what the doctors told her. She was able, finally, to have a lucid conversation with Moira too.

‘It was a guy putting out the rubbish who found you,’ Moira said. ‘One of the local shopkeepers. Around midnight, that was. If it hadn’t been for him going into the alley…’

Helen gave a shiver, knowing that this was what her attacker had thought of her – just another piece of trash to be pulped and then discarded.

‘And the police have been here. They’ll want to talk to you as soon as you’re ready.’

Helen gave a quick shake of her head, a movement she instantly regretted. It sent a shock of pain down her cheek and along her shattered jawbone. ‘No, I don’t want to talk to them. I can’t remember anything. It’s all a blank.’

‘Helen, we need to find out who did this. He could have killed you. Jesus, he came close enough.’

‘I can’t remember,’ Helen said again. She was more than aware of the line the cops would be taking: that she was just another tom who’d picked the wrong punter. The place they’d found her, the clothes and make-up she’d been wearing would all point in that direction. But she also knew that she wouldn’t be able to avoid the inevitable questions. The best she could hope for was to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. She knew in her heart, with a dull, despairing certainty, that the man who had raped her would never be caught.

Moira didn’t ask what she’d been doing in Soho. Perhaps, like the police, she thought she already knew. They talked instead about what had happened before, about the murder of Joe Quinn, the trial and the terrible outcome.

‘You should have called me,’ Moira said, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘After Yvonne threw you out. I’d have helped. You could have come to Portsmouth.’

‘Portsmouth?’ Helen said.

‘That’s where I went when I left Kellston. I put the address in the letter, and my new phone number. You did get the letter, didn’t you? I’ve got a friend there who runs a wine bar. She offered me a job and… well, I’d been in London all my life. I thought a fresh start might be a good thing.’

‘I did get the letter,’ Helen said. And then she had to explain why she hadn’t opened it, why she’d thrown it away without so much as a second glance. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Moira gave a gentle smile. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, love. We should have told you the truth when we had the chance. It was wrong to keep it from you. I can see that now.’

‘None of that matters any more.’

‘But I called,’ Moira said. ‘When the trial was going on. Three or four times. I heard what had happened and… I gave my number to Yvonne. I take it she didn’t pass it on to you.’

‘No.’

‘I thought you didn’t want to talk to me, so…’

A silence fell across the room. Out in the corridor a trolley rolled by, its wheels squeaking. Footsteps hurried past the door. Someone coughed. Helen felt a wave of fatigue roll over her. ‘So what happens now?’

‘As soon as you’re better, you’re coming home with me.’

‘Home,’ murmured Helen. Her eyelids, heavy as lead, were already closing again.

Helen wiped the surface of the counter until it was gleaming, then poured out two mugs of tea, went through to the back and sat down at the table. She’d been on the go since five o’clock that morning, and now it was almost half three. The last customer had left, the door was locked and the rest of the day was hers to do with as she wished.

As she looked around, she gave a tiny sigh of contentment. Her feet might be hurting, but her soul was finally starting to heal. Although the past would never completely leave her, her dreams had ceased to be haunted by that terrifying night in Soho. Here, in the little sandwich bar in Camden Town, she was beginning to find some peace.

Moira had bought the place shortly after Helen had got out of hospital, using what remained of her father’s inheritance and all her savings as a deposit. They worked from the crack of dawn until mid afternoon making mountains of takeaway sandwiches and dispensing endless cups of tea and coffee. The bar, situated only twenty yards from the tube station, turned a decent profit, and Moira had already paid off half the mortgage.

Although London had recently been riven by conflict, with clashes in Southall, Brixton and Finsbury Park, Helen still felt safe in Camden. The sandwich bar was like a cocoon, a place of safety, of sanctuary. Moira had done as she had promised and provided her with a home. She had given her two, in fact – this place, where she spent most of her time, and the small flat above it, which had originally been rented out for extra income but which had become free six months ago. It had been a big step moving out of Moira’s and into a place of her own, but Helen was glad now that she’d done it. She was twenty-one, a young woman, and living alone was one more step on the road to overcoming all her fears and insecurities.

Moira came in from the back yard, where she’d been putting out the rubbish, and went to wash her hands at the sink. ‘Is it just me, or do I stink of fried bacon?’

‘You and me both,’ Helen said. ‘Should we take it off the menu?’

‘We’d have a riot if we did.’

‘There’s a brew for you here.’

Moira sat down and picked up the mug. ‘Thanks, love. Just what I need.’

Helen watched as Moira raised the mug to her lips and blew softly across the surface of the tea. Usually she enjoyed this time of day, when the hard graft was over and they could sit comfortably together in the kitchen, but this afternoon she had something on her mind. She shifted in her chair, crossed and uncrossed her legs.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

Moira frowned at her. ‘I know that face, Helen Beck. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.’

Helen smiled weakly back. ‘Well, okay, I have been thinking about something.’ She hesitated, took a breath and then said, ‘It’s about Mum. Do you ever wonder what really happened to her?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Moira, her frown growing deeper. ‘What
really
happened?’

Helen gave a shrug. ‘Someone killed her and they got away with it. Don’t you ever wonder who or why? It seems so wrong that there’s someone walking around out there and… and they’ve not been made to pay for what they did.’

Moira glanced briefly down at the table before looking up again. Her eyes were full of sympathy and concern. ‘I know it’s hard, love, but sometimes you just have to let go.’

Helen knew that she wasn’t just referring to Lynsey’s murder but also to the vicious attack on Helen herself in Soho. Moira probably suspected that she was transferring her feelings about her own near-death experience to the actual murder of her mother. And maybe there was some truth in it. She couldn’t do anything now about the brute who’d raped her, but maybe there was something she could do about her mother’s killer. ‘And what if I can’t?’

Moira shook her head. ‘You’re just getting back on your feet. Going over all that again… well, it’s going to stir up a lot of emotions. Do you really think you’re ready, that you can cope with it?’

‘No,’ Helen said with a wry smile. ‘But then I doubt I ever will be. I just feel that it’s something I’ve got to do.’ She had the self-knowledge to understand that she was damaged, still fragile in many ways, but she was also aware that this was how she would remain if she couldn’t lay the past properly to rest.

Moira gave another small shake of her head. ‘I don’t know where you’d even start. It was so long ago.’

‘Maybe Tommy could help.’ After she’d got out of hospital, it had surprised Helen to discover that Moira had stayed in touch with her uncle. The two of them exchanged letters, although Moira had never been to visit. Tommy was serving his time up in Durham and, having completed two thirds of his ten-year sentence, was due to be released at the end of the month.

‘I don’t know how, love. He didn’t see her for years, not after she left Kellston.’

Helen thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘Where’s he going to go when he gets out?’

A light flush rose into Moira’s cheeks. ‘I’ve told him he can stay with me if he wants to. Just until he gets himself sorted. I’ve got the spare room now you’ve moved out, and…well, it’s not as if Yvonne left him with anything. You wouldn’t mind, would you?’

‘Of course not. Why should I? It’ll be great to see him again.’

Helen, remembering Moira’s revelation about her teenage crush, wondered if she still had feelings for Tommy. She might have teased her about it if her mind hadn’t been preoccupied by more serious matters. ‘You know, there’s something I’ve never understood. Tommy isn’t the type to let things lie, especially when it comes to family. Why didn’t he try and find out who killed her? They might have lost touch, but she was still his sister. I know he doesn’t go looking for trouble, but it’s not like him to walk away from something like that.’

Moira leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table. ‘Maybe it was easier for him to believe it was an accident, to close his mind to the idea that she could have been murdered. He always felt guilty that he hadn’t done more to help her out. He knew she was unhappy, that her life was a mess, but…’ The sentence tailed off into a shrug.

‘I guess,’ Helen said. ‘But there must have been some sort of an investigation. I mean, once the police discovered that it was a suspicious death.’

‘A pretty cursory one, I should imagine.’

‘What makes you say that?’

The colour rose into Moira’s cheeks again. ‘They don’t take much interest in girls who… They just presume… with the lifestyle she had and everything…’

‘You mean because she was a tom.’

Moira stiffened at the words, her gaze momentarily flicking away from Helen. ‘She had a lot of problems, love: the booze, the drugs and the rest. She never came straight out and said that was what she was doing, but…’

‘It’s okay,’ Helen said. ‘I understand. And I’m not going to judge her. How could I?’ Her own experiences in Soho had taught her how tough life could be. She wasn’t about to condemn her mother for making choices that were not so very far from her own.

‘She did want you,’ Moira continued. ‘She
really
wanted you. Don’t ever imagine that she didn’t. But it was hard for her. That family, the Becks, they never gave her a chance, and Alan… your father… he was—’

‘A pig,’ Helen said drily. ‘In every sense of the word.’

‘Well, I suppose it wasn’t easy for him, either.’

Helen smiled. It was typical of Moira that she wouldn’t bad-mouth her father even though she’d loathed the man.

‘Maybe I could drive up and see him. Tommy, I mean.’

Moira looked dubious. ‘It might be better if you wait until he gets out. There’s a lot of time to dwell on things in jail. You might… it might be tough for him to talk about her right now. It’s less than a month. It’s not so long.’

‘I suppose,’ Helen agreed, although she was inwardly disappointed. Now that she’d made the decision to start searching for answers, the thought of any delay filled her with frustration. ‘So when was the last time you heard from her?’

‘Oh God,’ said Moira, rubbing at her temples. ‘It must have been a few months before she died. She said everything was fine, the way she always did. She’d got a new flat and—’

‘Was that the Samuel Street flat?’ Helen interrupted. ‘The one in Kilburn.’

‘I think so.’

Helen nodded. ‘Maybe that’s the place to start.’

‘But it was years ago, love. I doubt there’ll be anyone living there who remembers her.’

‘It’s worth a try.’ Helen finished her tea, took the mug to the sink and rinsed it out. ‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything.’

Moira looked startled. ‘You’re going over there now?’

‘Sure. Why not? Well, I’m going to get changed first. I can get a bus from Camden station.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Moira half rose from her chair. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘No, I’ll be fine,’ Helen said, waving her back down. ‘I’ll give you a call later, yeah?’ And then before Moira could raise any further objections, she made a hasty exit through the back door. The sun was still shining brightly as she walked around the side of the building to the main street and her own front door, a few yards from the entrance to the sandwich bar.

Upstairs, she stripped off all her clothes, chucked them in the washing machine and jumped under the shower. Fifteen minutes later, free of the smell of bacon fat, she pulled on her jeans and a white T-shirt, hurriedly dried her hair, grabbed her jacket and bag, and headed for the bus stop.

It was another half-hour and getting on for five before Helen reached her destination. She walked past the shops on Kilburn High Road, their windows full of royal memorabilia. The wedding of Prince Charles and Diana Spencer was due to take place at the end of the month. Although a part of her wanted to, she didn’t really believe in fairy-tale romances – but then what did she know about romance? She hadn’t had a date for over a year, and that had been a disaster. After a pleasant meal in a restaurant, Carl had walked her home, leaned in for a good night kiss and she’d instantly gone into panic mode. She’d jumped back as swiftly as if he’d been wielding an axe in his hand. Needless to say, he hadn’t called again.

Helen took a left and then a right, and finally found herself in Samuel Street, standing outside a shabby Victorian terrace. She glanced down at the scrap of paper in her hand – yes, this was definitely number twenty-eight – and then back up at the three-storey house. She presumed that 28B, the number she had written down, must be the middle flat. There were curtains at the window, but no other sign of life.

Helen stared up at it for a while. There was paint peeling from the sill and the glass had a grey, dusty look. It gave her an odd, shivery feeling standing outside the house where her mother had died. She looked down towards her feet. Lynsey must have walked on this bit of pavement too. It was eerie to think about it. Was there such a thing as ghosts? Did some part of her mother still linger in the atmosphere? Her eyes were drawn back up towards the window, but it remained as still, as blank as the first time she had gazed at it.

Helen wasn’t quite sure, now that she was here, what exactly she was hoping to find out. That someone in one of the other flats might have known her mum? That they might have noticed who came and went? But as Moira had said, it had all happened so long ago. Even if one of the tenants had been around then, the chances of them remembering anything were slim.

Still, she hadn’t made the journey to Kilburn to give up the minute she arrived. She walked up the short path and examined the bells on the door. There were three of them, A, B and C. No names. Her finger hovered on 28B, but she already knew that
that
particular tenant
wouldn’t have been around back then.

As she tried to decide between A and C, it suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea what she was going to say. She chewed on her lower lip, attempting to think of something that wouldn’t make her sound deranged.
Hi, my name’s Helen. My mother died here in a fire. Did you know her?
She pulled a face. No, that sort of thing wouldn’t do at all.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she rang the bell for Flat A, put her nose against the opaque glass in the door and waited. There was no movement from inside. She tried to peer into the hallway, but couldn’t see anything clearly. She pressed the bell again, but when there was still no response, she tried C instead. Perhaps she had come too early. People wouldn’t be home from work yet.

Helen was considering going to get a coffee and coming back later when she heard the clatter of footsteps coming down the stairs. She quickly moved back from the door. It was opened seconds later by a girl of her own age wearing torn jeans, an off-the-shoulder pink T-shirt and a pair of Doc Martens. The girl, who also had a punk haircut and a gold ring in her lip, looked her up and down while lazily moving a wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hi,’ Helen said overbrightly. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I was… er… I was just wondering if you’d lived here for long?’

‘You what?’

Not a good start. And anyway, the girl was way too young to have been around at the same time as Lynsey. She was now looking simultaneously bored and suspicious, as if Helen was about to try and sell her something. ‘Sorry, I meant that I knew someone who used to live here, but it was a long time ago. I was hoping to talk to someone who… Do you know the other tenants? Do you know what time they’ll be back?’

‘Nah,’ the girl said. ‘No idea.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Helen hesitated, but couldn’t think of anything else useful to ask. The only option was to come back later and try and talk to the others in the house. She was about to leave when the girl tilted her head to one side and gave Helen a long, cool stare.

‘Who you looking for, then?’

‘Her name was Lynsey, Lynsey Beck.’

The girl gave a shrug. It was obvious the name didn’t mean anything to her. Why should it?

‘Thanks anyway,’ Helen said. ‘It was a bit of a long shot. I just thought I’d ask.’

The girl took a step back, her hand reaching for the door, but then she stopped. Perhaps something in Helen’s face, the expression of disappointment, prompted her to offer up a suggestion. ‘Have you asked at the agents’?’