I’ve got no bloody clue what to do next – that’s the truth. I’m so heartsick I don’t know what to do with myself full stop. And I haven’t managed to get hold of Frankie yet.
The image of Jeanie under that sheet spins round my head, so pale, that plastic thing shoved in her mouth, and all those stupid bloody machines, green lights and beeps. It’s unbearable. What will I do – if…
All the way from Derby on the train, my mind jangles like church bells rung by a group of pissed vicars.
As we’re pulling into St Pancras, the stringer Sal texts to say she’s made contact with her source at Hertfordshire County Council Social Services and started to dig around. She’s not seen Matthew yet; she thinks he’s still in custody.
She’s managed to speak to the investigating officer, who says he can’t disclose anything yet – but she knows the allegations have come from someone very close to King.
I get a cab home.
* * *
My neighbour catches me as I’m about to shut my front door.
‘Package for you,’ he says, ridiculous in tight Lycra, on his way to jog through the pollution.
It’s a badly wrapped book of some description; my name on the address label – but it’s misspelt.
In the flat I light a fag, put the espresso machine on and open it. There’s a note: three words.
For safe keeping.
I realise it’s a diary.
It’s Jeanie’s missing diary.
I flick through it.
Then I shove some clean knickers in my bag, swig my coffee back and I leave again. I walk to the local Avis branch, and I hire a car.
* * *
Driving out of London again, exhausted but my brain humming, I think about Jeanie’s words; what she wrote about Kaye arriving to get Scarlett. It’s hard to get a grasp of the woman’s real intentions from my sister’s writing. I don’t know how much of Jeanie’s own disquiet was informing what she wrote. I need to speak to the woman myself.
It’ s not hard to find Kaye King’s address. (Don’t ask me how I do it. I can’t divulge all my tricks and sources – but I can find an address quicker than you can say ‘hot dinner’.)
Kaye King – sounds like some type of poxy singer, some floaty type like Karen Carpenter, doesn’t it?
But when I actually meet Kaye, she couldn’t be further from that imagining.
Her apartment is in a modern block of expensive flats, set behind gates in landscaped gardens. It’s all most out of keeping with the rest of this twee, mock-Tudor town, and the big gates are firmly closed.
I park on the street and walk through the pedestrian gate to locked glass doors. There is her name, all pink and swirly beside number 201: Mrs Kaye King it reads.
I press the intercom buzzer over and over – but no one answers.
I’m wondering what to do – wait or go – when a shiny white Range Rover pulls in through the gates, opening electronically.
There’s a teenage boy in the passenger seat beside the woman driving. He is different from her blondeness: dark haired, round faced – the apologetic pudding Jeanie described. He sees me, and he says something as she pulls up, so that she looks at me, frowning.
‘Hi.’ I stand by her car door. ‘Are you Kaye?’
‘What?’ she mouths through the window, shaking her head as if she can’t understand me. The boy looks petrified.
‘I’m Marlena Randall; I’m Jeanie’s sister.’ I speak loudly and clearly, as if I’m talking to someone very stupid or very deaf. ‘Have you heard what’s happened? I’d like to speak to you please.’
‘Yes, I got your message. I am sorry.’ She lowers the window slightly, the engine still running. ‘How is she?’
‘Not good. I’m just – I’m wondering what went on…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is your daughter here?’
‘She’s staying with a friend. She has to be – protected. Because of what’s – happened.’
‘What’s happened?’ I know what she means; I just want her to say it.
The woman casts a quick look at her son. ‘I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation for now, Miss Randall.’ She puts huge emphasis on the ‘Miss’; coming from her mouth, it sounds like a dirty word. ‘Little pitchers, you know.’
The boy is at least fifteen, if not older, staring at his phone, not looking at me. Hardly a little pitcher – and he must be sensing the animosity surely?
Still, I don’t want to alienate Kaye immediately.
‘Yeah, granted,’ I say. ‘Is there somewhere we could talk privately? Just for a minute…’
‘Not really.’ Kaye’s face hardens. ‘We’re going through a really tough time ourselves you know.’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m sorry to hear that. But my sister’s on life support, and I want to know what the f—’ My turn to glance at the boy still mesmerised by Candy Crush. ‘What the hell was going on, you know, to push my sister into what she’s done?’
As Kaye contemplates me, her perfect manicure tapping the wheel, I’m distracted by a young man jogging towards us.
Kaye sees him too, opens the window further and calls to him, ‘I’ll see you inside.’