Dead Again Page 2

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Slough. I know it’s not fashionable but it’s where the money is.’

  ‘I admire you. Baby, I truly do. Congratulations. You must have done very well here financially.’

  Baby gave a discreet smile. ‘I’ve managed. I’m a saver.’

  You must be, thought Charmian, I hope you haven’t robbed a bank. But all she said aloud was, ‘When you open your next salon, in Knightsbridge, say opposite Harvey Nicols, I will be your first customer.’

  Baby laughed. ‘ Do you think I will ever do that? Well, if I do, you will get your first visit for free.’

  Baby combed Charmian’s hair. ‘ Your tint could do with a touch up … Just to brighten it a little.’

  ‘No.’ Charmian never admitted to the tinted shampoo she applied in the privacy of her own bathroom.

  They were both silent for a minute, thinking about Joan Dingham. Then Baby said, ‘Her sister still lives here.’

  Charmian nodded. ‘ I know that.’ The sister had been mentioned in the police dossier.

  ‘She’s younger than Joan, but not much. Lou called herself Joan’s best friend, and I guess she was. I think she was shocked at what came out at the trial, but she always blamed Joan’s partner, Rhos, more than her sister, and she thought there was someone else besides, but that was just fancy. Of course, Rhos had the good sense to do herself in before the police arrived on the scene. Joan never mentioned Rhos but she talked about Lou a lot. There’s feeling on both sides.’

  Baby started to dry Charmian’s hair. ‘I’m giving you a bit of a bounce on the crown, suits you.’

  Charmian agreed that it did suit her, but she was not thinking about her looks at the moment and did not really want to discuss her appearance.

  They did not talk for a bit then, as Charmian was paying her bill, Baby said, ‘She’s risking something coming out of prison, she’s safe there. The kid’s mother – the murder she was not charged with – is bound to have a go at her. And if she doesn’t, someone else will.’

  ‘She’ll be looked after,’ replied Charmian. ‘She might not use her own name and no one will know where she will be living.’

  ‘Think so?’ Baby helped Charmian on with her coat. The salon was nearly empty. ‘It’ll get out and you know it will.’

  They were both thinking of Diana. Diana belonged to that group of female criminals from Baby’s past. She had been a powerful if criminous influence on Baby, but a certain inner canniness had brought Baby back to the straight and narrow and interestingly into hair-dressing, which had been Diana’s profession. Or, at least, her legal one. She had had a secret life, all right. All Diana’s secrets – where she kept her money, the house she had in Malta under another name, even the hint that she had had a child – had begun to emerge when she went to prison and fell ill. She had once been said to be dying of cancer, but she was a survivor. In a way, she would never die, and Baby knew this as much as anyone. Diana still influenced her life.

  ‘It’s a dangerous game being a killer,’ said Charmian.

  ‘That’s not your sort of joke.’

  ‘I wasn’t joking.’ Charmian’s own relationship with Diana had been complicated. She had known her in those earlier days.

  ‘Want a spray?’ Baby held out a shiny tin.

  ‘Yes.’ As Charmian bent her head she frowned. ‘Do you keep up with the others?’ Others in the gang, she meant. ‘Bee and Phil?’

  ‘No, and you know I don’t. Once I decided to go respectable I had to cut them out… I send a card at Christmas and I did Bee’s hair for her once when she popped in, but otherwise nothing.’

  They were still in touch then, whatever she said. Charmian made a mental note.

  ‘I thought I saw Bee walking down Peascod Street last week.’

  ‘You might have done.’ Baby was vague. ‘It was Di who held us together.’

  Charmian nodded. I bet if I tapped your phone, she told herself, I’d hear something interesting.

  ‘Do you know anything about hermits? There’s one come to live in the town.’

  ‘No,’ said Baby, crisply. ‘ Hermits don’t come to me to get their hair cut.’

  Her attention was diverted by the arrival of a delivery van from Fortnum and Mason.

  Charmian extricated her car from the car park at the back of the salon which was somewhat more crowded than usual, and drove home without another word being said to Baby. Sometimes, she told herself, she would like to stamp on Baby’s confident, pretty face, and scream. Charmian liked Beryl Andrea Barker, she was attractive, lively and a good hairdresser. In many ways, she admired her, but it was almost impossible to know her without suspecting her. Of something, of anything.

  Baby was on the phone as soon as Charmian had disappeared. ‘Bee, thank goodness you’re there.’

  ‘Thought I told you not to telephone.’

  ‘I’m nervous. I really am, Bee. Is Phil there?’

  ‘No, she’s not back yet.’ Bee kicked Phil’s ankle while mouthing ‘shut up’. ‘And there’s no need to be nervous. Being a good girl for too long has weakened your nerves.’

  ‘It’s Joan coming out … joining us … she’d terrify anyone.’ A pause, then Baby said, ‘And you know what we always said: once she’s out you can count on a couple of kids being done in, just to celebrate.’

  ‘That was just a joke.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. One of those jokes you don’t laugh at. She always hinted she was just one of a group. She called the others her little friends.’

  ‘I thought she didn’t speak about it.’

  ‘Not seriously. She made jokes, you know, take it how you would, she wasn’t quite mute.’ A pause before Baby went back to her worries. ‘And Diana. She’s still around, you know. The undead.’ A kind of ghost from the past who they all remembered.

  ‘Don’t use that name,’ commanded Bee harshly.

  ‘No, I won’t, I haven’t. Not in public, anyway, only among us.’ She had always admired Diana. Well, they all had. ‘She’d be forty, you know.’ Older really, but forty officially.

  ‘I do know,’ said Bee harshly, being still older.

  ‘I said I’d put on a little do for Joan,’ said Baby.

  ‘Order the champagne, then, we’ll make it a do, but don’t use the word celebration, you’ve put me right off it.’

  Images of dead girls killed in ‘celebration’ of Joan Dingham’s release were powerful.

  ‘I’ve already ordered the champagne. Vintage. Joan likes the good stuff.’ They all did.

  Baby had one other worry.

  ‘The girls here tell me this man turned up … God knows who he is. Prowling round. Asking questions. I didn’t see him myself. He’s got a dog, too.’

  In the next few days Charmian had several meetings about Joan Dingham’s arrival.

  First, she had a talk with her local colleagues, Inspector Parker and Sergeant Emily Agent who would be responsible for Joan’s safety.

  ‘She insists on using her own name, so there’s no question of her hiding.’ John Parker was a tall, thin man, young for his rank. ‘Probably wise. She’d certainly be sussed out.’

  ‘She hasn’t changed very much,’ said Emily Agent. ‘And you can’t hide that nose.’

  Charmian nodded. ‘She wasn’t bad-looking.’

  ‘I’m not saying she wasn’t. And she isn’t now. But it’s a Roman nose, isn’t it? Like the Duke of Wellington.’

  ‘Anyway, she’s coming as herself, loud and clear. So that makes our job more difficult, but we shall keep someone with her at all times. It’s expensive, but there you are, it’s better than what might happen.’

  ‘So who will it be?’ asked Charmian.

  ‘Me.’ Emily smiled. ‘Or most of the time, at any rate. It has to be a woman for obvious reasons, and I’m not married – I don’t even have a boyfriend at the moment. I shall have someone else to relieve me on occasion and then, as John says, it’s only for a matter of weeks.’

  ‘Of course, th
e university people are fussing a bit. You’ve seen them, I suppose?’

  ‘I’m going on there now,’ said Charmian. ‘ I’ve got an appointment with Dr Greenham. He’s arranging the work side of things. Joan will work on her own and have a special room in the university library. She will go to a few lectures if things work out. They have video links and such like.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Inspector Parker, ‘ she could do the whole thing that way, all private and on her own. But no, the powers that be think this must be tried.’

  ‘I have some sympathy with that,’ said Charmian. ‘Provided she knows the risks she’s walking into.’

  ‘Wants to try them, I think.’ Emily Agent had seen more of Joan Dingham recently than the other two. Charmian had only met the woman once, and then briefly. She found it hard to assess what impression the woman had made on her, it was as if a glass wall had come down between them so that you could see and hear but not touch.

  The glass wall was called prejudice, she supposed.

  ‘If anything happens to her, then it’s our heads on the block,’ said John Parker gloomily.

  Dr Greenham had met Charmian at the big main entrance to the university buildings. ‘Easy to get lost in this rabbit warren,’ he explained easily. ‘Come along to the Common Room and have a drink while we talk. Wouldn’t dare let you see my room, it’s awash with papers and books. I’m external examiner for a university you’ve probably never heard of.’

  Dr Greenham was neatly dressed, with a sharp hair cut and an easy manner.

  ‘So she wants to do a degree in sociology,’ he said.

  ‘Can she do that?’

  ‘She’s probably as capable of it as anyone else. She’ll have to go through a general first year course leading into it and by then she may have decided not to go ahead with it. They often do.’

  ‘Really?’ Charmian was surprised. In her day, you went on from where you had started.

  ‘It’s not a soft option although it looks it,’ said Greenham. ‘I’ll give her a reading list, show her round the library, and introduce her to one or two fellow students.’ He sounded pleasant but detached. He was a smooth young man and meant to go on being smooth. ‘If in trouble, may I call on you?’ It wasn’t quite a question, he just meant Charmian to know that trouble was not his business. ‘And if I fall into any kind of trouble, I shall hold you to account.’

  ‘You won’t,’ Charmian assured him, although honestly, who knew?

  ‘She’s not the most popular of women.’

  ‘She’ll have a kind of minder,’ Charmian said.

  ‘Like royalty – the Princess of Crime, the Queen of Murder.’

  Charmian did not answer: the woman had to be protected, it was just a job.

  But she felt gloomy as if several unpleasant responsibilities were hanging over her like birds of prey, beaks at the ready.

  Joan Dingham travelled with a kind of entourage: a prison officer and a police officer, both in plain clothes, but both looking as if they had just left the army. They were not exactly friendly travelling companions because you couldn’t quite trust them. She had taken pains to get on well with them, such as they were. No sense in queering your own pitch.

  Two friends – yes, she had friends, she told herself – had got on the train at Reading. Madge and Jeanie. Had made quite a fuss of her. Margie Wells, the prison librarian, a really close friend, Joan told herself, was not out yet. Soon. Another month.

  Joan herself was dressed neatly and with some style. This had always been her mark and she saw no reason why prison should change this. It was easy enough to order clothes by post or phone and if some famous stores were surprised at the address the goods were to go to, it didn’t stop the orders arriving, and the bills were paid. Looks counted. She was a famous woman, she would be observed.

  Hair was a different matter and she would be glad of some good professional advice. She had changed the colour several times but home jobs (or prison jobs more accurately because she hoped she would never think of a cell as home) showed. You could always tell. Some subtlety was missing.

  Lou joined the train at Windsor and all the friends gathered quietly in Joan’s carriage. She travelled first class, of course, so they could talk and make plans.

  Lou reached across to take Joan’s hand. ‘I love you, Joanie.’

  Joan pressed her sister’s hand. ‘Love you too.’

  ‘You’re the best sister anyone ever had.’

  ‘Sisters help each other, Lou.’

  They smiled at each other, one of those close smiles that says a lot if you already know the answer.

  ‘I know that school was important,’ said Lou. ‘It was where you got to know Rhos.’

  No one was allowed to talk about Rhos, only Lou ventured to do so.

  ‘My best school mate,’ said Joan slowly. Bar one, really, but she did not say this aloud.

  ‘St Edyth’s School,’ went on Lou. ‘Long since gone. Part of a big comprehensive now.’

  The train sped on. One of the party produced a bottle of champagne and some plastic cups. There was enough for a couple of drinks each, excluding the minders.

  ‘I must get to the hairdresser,’ said Joan, passing her hand over her head. ‘Colour’s all wrong.’

  Her sister appraised it. ‘ Could do with a touch of something.’

  ‘Your hair looks good. Where do you go?’

  ‘Where do you think? I go to Baby.’

  ‘Right. Beryl Andrea Barker, here I come.’

  ‘I’ve met a very nice couple of witches in Windsor,’ said Lou conversationally.

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘White witches. They run a bookshop – Crime and Witches. You meet interesting people there.’

  ‘I bet you do. I must look in.’

  ‘You’ll be a draw.’

  ‘Not sure if I want to be,’ said Joan modestly.

  There was a pause. Lou lowered her voice so the minders could not hear. ‘I ought to tell you that you are not the only famous face coming back to town.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ said Joan cautiously.

  ‘Baby told me. She’ll tell you.’

  ‘Di, is it? I heard she was dead.’

  ‘So did I. She may be a sort of ghost.’

  ‘Is she coming to the party?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You never could keep Di away from a party,’ said Joan. ‘Alive or dead. Years since we met. I may not know her whatever her condition.’

  ‘She’ll know you,’ said Lou uneasily. ‘Know me too, I expect.’

  Humphrey returned home that evening, and when they had kissed, he said, ‘What’s up with your friends, the white witches? As I drove home, I passed one of them – Birdie, I think it was – and she was hurrying through the streets looking distressed. I leant out of the car and tried to talk to her but she disappeared down the road in the direction of the Great Park without a word. In fact, I don’t think she noticed me.’

  Charmian poured them some wine. She took a good draught herself.

  ‘I won’t say she was talking to herself and pulling her hair.’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Charmian indignantly.

  ‘But it looked like it.’

  ‘I will ring them after we’ve eaten.’

  But she didn’t get a chance.

  Only a few minutes later, while she was mixing the salad. Birdie herself telephoned. Her voice was shaky. ‘Could you come to see us?’

  ‘Yes, sure, what is it?’

  ‘It’s our hermit. He’s disappeared.’

  Charmian looked at her husband, he nodded and mouthed that he had told her so. He had known there was trouble. Charmian sighed. ‘ It’ll have to be later this evening.’

  Nervously, Birdie said, ‘Do you think Humphrey would come? A man’s judgement, you know …’

  Charmian swallowed her feminist fury. When she thought of things she had heard Birdie say about warlocks … ‘Yes, I think he might.’

  Humphr
ey, just that day back from a course on theatre studies in New York (‘I know I can’t act,’ he had said, ‘ and I will never write for the theatre, but I do like thinking about it.’), followed by a quick trip to the Manhattan Theater Troupe, seized with quiet pleasure on this piece of real-life drama.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ she said as they walked to where Birdie and Winifred lived. ‘I don’t know whether it’s my influence or whether it’s because you have ceased being a courtier.’ But has he? Do they ever, she thought?

  ‘I’ve changed all by myself.’ Humphrey was probably laughing at her.

  Birdie and Winifred both came to the door to meet them. They must have been awaiting them keenly, probably looking out of the upper window that commanded a view of the curve in the street. Both were wearing lollipop-coloured, loose silk dresses, and had bare feet. Different lollipops though. Birdie wore peppermint green while Winifred wore raspberry pink. Charmian recognized the silks as what she called their stop and go costumes, worn only in times of stress. Clearly this was one such time.

  She gave each of them a hug since this seemed to be the required therapy. ‘So he’s gone. But why the panic? I expect he’s just moved on, he was probably that sort.’

  Birdie shook her head. ‘No, you mustn’t talk of “that sort”, people are never just “that sort”. It’s not worthy of you to say so.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Humphrey, showing the masculine judgement for which he had been brought here. ‘Birdie knows what she’s talking about.’

  ‘Indeed I do, we have had wanderers stay in the garden before now. We are on their route and they always give an indication before moving on. Unconsciously even, but we can read them … A tidy up here, a little bonfire there, sometimes a small theft from the kitchen – nothing of value, but we know what it means. And

  it might equally be a small offering to us.’

  ‘You’re a good woman,’ said Humphrey with genuine admiration.

  Birdie shook her head. ‘But not this time, and he was a hermit,

  a holy man, not a wanderer. Wanderers,’ she added sadly, ‘ are rarely