‘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?’
‘I’m not sure it’s been proven though,’ I try to reassure him. ‘I think it might be a mistake.’
‘I bloody well hope so.’ He brightens slightly. ‘Do you want to see her? She’s beautiful, my Daisy.’
‘I’d love to,’ I reply truthfully. I’m more than intrigued.
Her father gets a battered old photo out of his wallet; it’s a school photo perhaps, creased and folded. The girl has long blonde hair and a nice smile, but what’s rather spooky, I think, is her resemblance to Kaye.
‘Beautiful,’ I say, though she’s not particularly, if I’m honest. I pass it back. ‘I’m glad she’s all right.’ She’s beautiful to him, naturally. As all children are meant to be to their parents, only…
It doesn’t always work like that, does it?
Peter Bedford zips his old wax jacket up. ‘I wish she’d never gone there, to that bloody scary house. Never liked it, she said, used to creep her out.’
‘Why?’
‘All them dark windows and corners. Whispering walls, she used to say. She heard voices in the night. And them graves in the garden. You wanna ask that King bloke – how the hell did they get there?’
‘The graves?’ I remember Jeanie’s entry about the garden, that day she wrote about Yassine’s visit.
‘All the pets kept on dying, Daisy said. She was freaked out. They said there was a ghost too. A lady what hung herself.’
‘Hung herself?’
‘That’s right. Up in that bloody turret.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I shake my head, thinking of Jeanie’s own terror. ‘Was there ever a gardener she mentioned, by the way?’
‘Not that I remember. Just her, as it were, on the staff. Oh and some cleaner I think.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m so glad Daisy’s getting better.’
He blows his nose loudly.
‘One more question,’ I say, as we walk to the pub door together. Comedy Gold is on the television in the corner; an episode of Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em by the look of things.
Some of us have mothers we’d rather not have.
‘Did she live there then? With the family?’
‘Oh yeah. She had her own room you know. Very fancy. En suite and all.’
The room Jeanie smashed up?
Peter Bedford pulls open the door with a huge wrench. ‘She was so proud of ’erself, you know, when she got that job. Good family like that. Wanted her independence you know. Well kids do, don’t they?’
I nod my agreement.
‘But my God, I wish she’d stayed working for me in the shop.’ His eyes are glassy with tears. ‘She’d still be okay then, wouldn’t she? She’d not be walking with a limp for the rest of ’er life. She’d not be looking over her shoulder or having them terrible dreams.’
There’s not much I can say to that.
* * *
As I’m heading back to my room, exhausted but strangely exhilarated – ever closer to the truth, I feel – my phone rings again.
And it’s Frankie.
It’s reality.
This isn’t a case I have to remind myself. This is my sister. This is life and death – and I’m on it too late. If I’d got involved before…
‘I’ll ring you back in two minutes, Frank,’ I say, because I find myself so choked up, I have to prepare myself. ‘From the landline.’
I smoke a fag out of the window of my room, like a schoolkid, and then I call him back.
I have to tell him what’s happened, where Jeanie is, and he’s beyond devastated of course.
And that puts any exhilaration I’m feeling right out of the picture of course.
‘I’ll get the train tomorrow morning,’ he says, voice quivering.
I say, ‘Get a flight. I’ll pay.’ I give him my credit-card details, and I can sense him trying not to cry as he asks where she is and what airport is nearest.
‘Can I ring her?’ he asks.
And I have to say, ‘Well – she’s not really talking at the moment, Frankie, not yet.’
And then he does cry.
‘Frankie.’ I swallow my own grief and fear as best I can. ‘She’s going to be all right you know.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ he mutters, and I hear the confusion and the anger in his voice. ‘I don’t know that, and it doesn’t sound like you do either, Marlena.’
‘Jeanie’s really strong,’ I tell him. ‘She’s a fighter.’
Which is true, has been true – up to now. She was always so strong, for me. Look what she did – how she cared.
‘But if that’s true, then why did she do it? And how…’ I hear the little boy that he is. His heart is breaking; I can hear it actually happening. ‘How could she leave me?’
Oh Christ.
I can’t answer that for her, but I have an idea that, if she did do it on purpose, well, she just couldn’t take any more pain, because she loves him so much, she’d never have chosen to go…
And yet, did she do it? Did she try and kill herself?