Someone You Know

Chapter 7

Tess: June 2018

I lean my head against the cold of the car window and watch people, shops and traffic stream past my eyes. Post-rush hour, the roads are clear, and we pass swiftly through the town centre and out towards the police station. It sits on the edge of town, where industrial estates mix with the suburbs. Most families of the missing long for resolution, an answer, any answer. But I don’t know what I’ll do if this body is Edie. Only hope has allowed me to survive this long.

I don’t have to know the truth. I could get out at the next set of lights and walk away, start a new life and never come back, as I imagine Edie did. At this moment she could be harvesting grapes in the Loire or surfing in California. It can’t be her lying on a table, her bones being picked over, photographed and catalogued.

Detective Inspector Vilas sits in the front passenger seat, his hands smoothing the light creases in his grey trouser suit, with his hair swept back from the temples, his appearance speaks more of business executive than serving police officer. He’s polite but distant. The driver, Detective Sergeant Craven, is a little friendlier.

‘I’ve daughters of my own. I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you,’ he said when he picked us up.

We turn off the main road, then down a small lane running between two neat rows of semis, the inhabitants probably unaware of the horrors adjoining their pristine lawns.

Craven pulls up next to a police car and two other unmarked vehicles parked in front of a low concrete building with ramps either side of its main entrance.

DI Vilas leads us inside and talks to the receptionist, who passes him two lanyards, one each for Dad and me. We’re then buzzed through a set of double doors and led down a long, narrow corridor to a windowless room with a desk and chairs and a large mirror on one wall.

‘I’ll just be a moment,’ Vilas says and leaves us.

He returns, carrying a sealed black bag, and takes the chair on the opposite side of the table.

‘Are we going to see…’ I don’t know what to say, Edie, the corpse? I settle for ‘her’.

Vilas looks confused.

‘No. I thought you knew. The body’s been in the water for twenty years. We found a skeleton, no soft tissue.’

Is his coldness an attempt to stop a torrent of emotion from us?

‘Then I don’t understand what we’re doing here,’ I say.

‘Certain items were found, which the lab are hoping you’ll be able to identify.’

Lab. Images of cold examination tables with metal tools designed to scrape, break and probe. This girl is no one to them, whoever she is. With no soft tissue, no face, no eyes, she’s just a bundle of bones and ‘items’. They could be items in a shopping trolley. Under the table, Dad takes hold of my hand.

Vilas removes a clear plastic bag from the larger black one and places it in front of us. Dad looks away. I lean over. Inside is a short-sleeved polyester dress, dirty and degraded. I can see that it used to be bottle green with a thin white stripe and a white Peter Pan collar, now badly stained with brown blotches.

‘I’ve been informed this was the standard summer dress at Joseph Amberley Girls School from 1994 to 2001,’ he says.

‘I had the same dress,’ I say.

Dad’s grip on my hand tightens.

‘Can you see anything that indicates this belonged specifically to Edie?’

Dad still won’t look.

‘I can’t see the size,’ I say.

‘It’s a medium,’ Vilas says.

‘Lots of girls would have been a medium. Lots of girls would have worn that uniform.’

Vilas’s face softens. Perhaps he’s human, after all.

‘This uniform was found wrapped round the remains of the girl found in the reservoir. Her height and age match Edie’s and forensics estimate they’ve been down there for around two decades.’

I push the bag away. Vilas waits a moment before placing another, smaller bag on the table.

‘Could you look at something else for me?’ he asks.

The contents are too small to see clearly. I lean down so that my nose nearly touches the plastic. A silver chain lies flat against the table surface. Attached to it is a pendant, its once silver wings eroded but still identifiable. I raise my left wrist. A tiny matching pendant swings round on the chain of my bracelet.

‘It was a set?’ Vilas says. ‘So this belonged to Edie.’

The room goes very cold and I start to shake. Vilas leans over to examine my bracelet.

‘It’s some sort of bird. What is it, a dove?’

‘A swift,’ I say. ‘It’s a swift.’

Dad makes a strange gasping sound. Mum’s maiden name was Swift. Grandpa Len bought the necklace for her, with a matching bracelet, for her eighteenth birthday. After she died, Edie wore the necklace and I took the bracelet.

‘Is there any chance…’ I trail off.

Vilas takes a deep breath.

‘We’re running dental records and checking DNA, but even before you identified the necklace and dress, we believed this to be Edie.’

I won’t accept what he’s saying. There must be another explanation. I look to Dad. He’s turned away from me, so that I can’t see his face.

He says softly, ‘I knew it was her this time.’ His back rises and falls in silent sobs. I can’t stop shaking.

‘I’m sorry, this must be a terrible shock,’ Vilas says.

The empathy doesn’t reach his eyes. He stands up, places the dress back into the black bag and reaches for the necklace. I put my hand on it.

‘No,’ I say.

Vilas glances at Craven, who leans forwards.

‘Tess,’ Craven says. ‘This is evidence. It will help us find out what happened to Edie. DI Vilas will need to take it with him.’

I let go and fall back on the chair. Vilas picks up the bags. I watch the bulge of Edie’s dress press against the plastic.

‘Was it…’ I hardly dare speak the words. ‘Was it an accident?’

Craven sits back down.

‘All the evidence points away from an accident,’ he says.

I think of the stain on the dress collar, it wasn’t brown originally, it was red, bright red.

‘Edie was wrapped in plastic sheeting and weighted down. There’s little room for ambiguity,’ Vilas says. ‘DS Craven will be assigned as your family liaison officer. Edie’s case is being changed from a missing person to a murder inquiry.’

Chapter 8

Edie: September 1993

Caitlin needed two stitches in her top lip. If she hadn’t had a reputation as a bully, Tess would have been suspended. Instead, she was dragged before the headmistress. Edie came as a witness. Mrs Stanton declared it to be ‘six of one and half a dozen of the other’. Tess, Caitlin and Deanne would be given lunchtime detention for the next week and a letter sent to their parents.

‘Make sure you give it to Dad, not Mum,’ Edie whispered as they came out of the head’s office.

*

‘Nice one, Tess,’ Raquel said as they were leaving school. ‘Wish I’d been there.’

Raquel wasn’t the only one who admired Tess. The whole school was happy to hear about Caitlin being taken down, and tiny Tess doing it made it even funnier.

‘Are you coming to Roswell?’ Raquel asked.

Mum had told them to keep away from Roswell Park. Older kids went there to smoke, drink and worse. Besides, they’d got in enough trouble for one day.

‘Valentina said to go round and tell her what our first day was like,’ Edie said.

‘She’s always having you over. Mum says it’s cos she’s no kids of her own. But she never asks me. What do you do there, anyway? You’ll have more fun at Roswell.’

‘She makes cakes for us,’ Tess said as if this explained everything.

Raquel looked at her sideways.

‘Suit yourself.’

*

Valentina must have been looking out for them, because she opened the door before they knocked. Her hair was in its usual chignon and she wore a suede skirt and long boots.

‘Edie, Tess,’ she said and motioned for them to come in. ‘You have to help me eat this gingerbread. I always make too much. Mr Vickers never eats it.’

Edie knew Valentina really made it for them. It was their favourite. She skipped into the house without stopping. Tess hovered at the front door.

‘Don’t you want any, Tess?’ Valentina asked.

‘Maybe we should go and see Dad first,’ Tess said.

‘He won’t miss us,’ Edie answered.

Every day Dad sat in the same chair, smoking the same brand of cigarettes, watching the same programmes. It didn’t matter whether she and Tess were there or not. Tess trudged inside.

The Vickers’ home always seemed so much brighter and larger than their own. It had a small extension at the back, so that the kitchen could fit a large chest freezer, for Valentina’s casseroles and stewed fruit. It was so clean and tidy you wouldn’t think anyone lived there. Only Valentina brought it to life, as she filled the air with baking and Chanel No. 5.

One day, Edie would have a home like this, clean and calm, until she arrived, and she would be Valentina, brightening the rooms with her presence, filling the air with warm spice and perfume. People would call her Edith, not Edie. She wouldn’t have a husband who sat in his armchair smoking all day or one like Mr Vickers who came home, only to start barking complaints the moment he stepped through the door. If she ever married it would be to a man like Uncle Ray, handsome and fun. She could never remember Uncle Ray raising his voice or not wanting to take her to the park or saying no when she wanted something. Why did men like Uncle Ray marry Auntie Becca and women like Valentina marry Mr Vickers?

‘And how was your day, girls?’ Valentina asked as she put the tray down.

There was a pause. Edie glanced at Tess, best not to mention Caitlin.

‘Edie’s on the top-stream table, I’m not,’ Tess said sulkily.

‘That’s a shame,’ Valentina said.

‘Tess will catch up,’ Edie said.

Valentina smiled and passed Tess a plate.

‘And you’re so good at drawing, Tess,’ Edie said. ‘You can’t be good at everything.’

Tess seemed to cheer up and took some cake.

‘I was always hopeless at maths and things like that, Tess,’ Valentina said. ‘Much better at cookery and art.’

Neither spoke while Valentina fussed, pouring the tea and cutting the cake. Edie ate her gingerbread and Tess broke hers into small pieces without bringing any to her mouth. Valentina tried to hand her a teacup twice before she noticed.

‘Your mum says you’re going away this weekend,’ Valentina said.

‘We’re going to London with Auntie Becca,’ said Tess. ‘To see Aunt Lola in Kentish Town.’

‘That’ll be fun. Are you going to see all the sights?’

‘No,’ said Tess. ‘We’ve been before. We’ll probably go down Oxford Street.’

Edie was less thrilled than Tess. Aunt Lola gave their cousins money to shop, whereas Tess and Edie could only watch. Still, she liked her cousins, Cassie was too young to be of much interest, but Corrine and Ashley were older and a lot more fun than Tess. She dreamt of being their age or older and living in London by herself. That was until she married and had Valentina’s house.

‘Dad can’t come though, Uncle Ray’s busy with work and someone has to look after Pepe,’ Tess said.

‘Who?’

‘Auntie Becca’s dog. Do you and Mr Vickers ever go away for weekends?’

‘No,’ Valentina said. ‘Not our thing.’

‘Why not?’

‘Mr Vickers doesn’t really like travel. I persuaded him to go to Portugal once, he hated it.’

It was odd how Valentina referred to her husband as Mr Vickers, as if he were a teacher. Edie couldn’t imagine Mum calling Dad ‘Mr Piper’.

Valentina glanced at her watch.

‘You know what,’ she said. ‘I’ll put the rest of the cake in Tupperware and you can take it with you for your journey. You’ll be a few hours on that coach.’

‘We’re taking Uncle Ray’s car. Auntie Becca wants to buy lots of clothes,’ Tess said.

Edie giggled.

‘She’ll only get black tops and trousers like all her others.’

‘I don’t care why. It’ll be nicer in the car.’

Edie thought about it. Uncle Ray’s car had leather seats and a stereo. The coach had dirty toilets and old ladies trying to talk to you.

‘I suppose so,’ she said.

‘Well take the cake anyway,’ Valentina said.

She took the gingerbread back into the kitchen and returned with a plastic box.

‘Bring the Tupperware back when you’ve finished, will you?’

‘We will,’ Edie said.

Tess stood up. Edie had hoped to stay for another slice. She saw Valentina’s eyes flick to her watch again.

‘Mr Vickers had a meeting in Stoke this afternoon and he’s not going back to the office before coming home.’

Edie understood. She got to her feet and thanked Valentina for the cake.

*

The smell of stale tobacco drifted from under their front door. Edie felt the gloom before they even stepped inside. Tess ran over to Dad and kissed him. He patted her on the head, cigarette still in hand; a little ash fell into her hair.

‘Hi, Dad,’ she said.

‘Hi, girls.’

He spoke softly, as always.

‘We’ve got some cake, do you want some?’

‘Not now, Tess,’ he said.

‘I’ll put it in the kitchen.’

Edie followed her. She had just got the plates out for a second slice when the shouting began next door.

‘I can smell it. Baking all day for those bloody urchins and what do I get when I get in? Sardines on effin’ toast.’

They couldn’t hear Valentina’s reply.

‘What’s the time got to do with it? I don’t work every hour God sends to feed the neighbourhood waifs and strays.’

A door slammed.

Tess and Edie looked at each other. Tess looked like she was about to cry. Edie started to giggle.

Chapter 9

Tess: June 2018

I lie in bed. Dad brings me cups of tea I don’t drink. Cassie and Max make calls I don’t answer. Dad will have told them what’s happened by now and anyway, it’s all over the news. DS Craven comes in and asks if he can have a word. I say no and Dad tells him to leave me alone.

‘You should really eat something,’ Dad says.

I’m sure he’s had nothing himself. He leaves a plate of Welsh rarebit on the side table.

I turn over and stare out of the window; the rain trickling down my reflection in its pane provides the tears I’m unable to cry.

The only reason I moved to London was because I thought I’d find Edie. She’d dreamed of living in the city and it didn’t matter how many millions of people lived there, I knew one day I’d bump into her on Oxford Street or at Waterloo Station.

But she was never there. The whole time she was lying at the bottom of a reservoir, wrapped in plastic and weighted down. She would still be there now if the police hadn’t dragged it after a tip-off about a drugs stash, but there were no drugs, just the body of a young girl, another one. We’ve had many messages from the police over the years. An unidentified young female, you may need to prepare. And then you hate yourself for being relieved at another girl’s death. Anyone’s as long as it isn’t Edie’s. And now it is.

Anger rushes through me. How could this happen? How can Edie be dead? I find the energy to get up and go to her room. There have to be answers somewhere, she must have left me something. Where’s the photograph, where are the missing pages from the scrapbook? I start with the tallboy. I find a couple of old Record Collector magazines and an NME from 1998 with Blur on the cover. I turn every page, to see if anything’s cut out or ringed. Nothing. Her make-up bag’s still here. A Rimmel eyeliner pencil and mascara in black, cherry-red Boots Seventeen lipstick, dried and cracked. I leap on a scrap of paper crunched up in the corner. It’s covered in silver powder from a long since disintegrated eyeshadow. I press it flat against the wall and hold it to the light. I can just about make out a till receipt from Topshop dated April 1998. I screw it up and throw it back then pull the drawer out completely, turn it over and shake its contents on the floor to make sure I’ve not missed anything.

I start pulling out the other drawers, rifling through them, spreading old birthday cards, mismatching earrings and desiccated cough sweets across the carpet. Nothing.

I go to the wardrobe. Her faux suede jacket is still hanging there and her dress with the fitted body and full skirt, that was unfashionable back then but everyone wanted when they saw it on Edie. I go through the coat pockets and a couple of bags: more receipts and a few bus tickets. Flinging the clothes on the floor, I then run my hands in the corners to make sure I haven’t missed anything. It’s empty.

I start pulling books from the shelves. She could have hidden the missing pages from the ‘Cakemaker’ scrapbook in their leaves. I flip through the pages then hold their spines and shake each one out. A couple have magazine clippings slipped inside, mostly about bands, but no loose pages from the scrapbook. I try her school exercise books. A little hope. A phone number and address I don’t recognise. No names, though. I take a photo with my phone anyway.

The last things left are her records. I don’t touch them. Edie wouldn’t have written anything on those or stuffed something inside the sleeves. They were too important to her.

I sit down in the pile of clothes, books and junk in the centre of the room. Is this all that’s left of Edie? This and the necklace I’m not allowed to have because it’s evidence. I pull my knees to my chest, lay my head on them and start to cry. I can’t believe she’s gone. Every last thread of hope has been pulled from me. DS Craven told us the DNA and dental records are a match. This is all there is, a pile of clothes and some junk.