could find her, make sure she was all right. It’s not the first time that’s happened but it’s never nice.
Today’s local evening paper had asked: ‘Trunk Mystery: Solution in Sight?’ Its first paragraph claimed: ‘Sensational developments in the Trunk Murder were hourly expected late last night following a day of great activity by Scotland Yard officers in London. ’
Well, I had to give the locals something too, didn’t I? Donaldson had gone up to London in the afternoon and later telephoned us to say he was staying up there overnight.
The paper said: ‘His departure has special significance in view of reports that a London man has been visited by police officers in connection with the crime. Another man was also at the Yard for two hours. ’
That’s as maybe, but Simpson told me Donaldson actually stayed up to take his sister out to dinner for her birthday.
To be honest, I was spoilt for choice for stories to tell the press. No harm in it, was there? The great unwashed liked reading this stuff and we were inundated with it down the nick.
That day, for instance, we’d found a car that had been seen in suspicious circumstances on the coast road at Roedean on Derby Day. Two men had been seen lifting out a trunk. When they saw they’d been noticed, they put the trunk back in the car and drove off. The owner of the car stated it was out of his possession between 31st May and 10th June. Car didn’t tell us anything, though, and whatever they’d been up to it didn’t seem to be connected.
The knives are long forgotten.
Thursday 5th July
Today it was an empty bungalow on the Downs at Woodingdean. I went with Percy and DS Sorrell. We had a tip from London. We searched the garden and all the rooms. There was brown paper and, in the kitchen, some knives. Won’t lead to anything.
I saw the Girl Guide again tonight. She lets me do whatever I want.
Saturday 7th July
Last night Scotland Yard published a list of missing local girls who most tally to the description of the woman we found. There were ten and I’m almost certain I once had a knee-trembler with one of them down that alley that runs from the side of the town hall to West Street. Phyllis Fifer, age 24, from Portslade. She’d gone off to live on a farm in West Sussex.
She was fresh complexioned and freckled. She was a well-built girl who took good care of her appearance. I’m sure it was her. She got upset because I tore her bloomers.
We’re busy tracing prenatal cases around the country.
I try not to feel guilt. It’s a negative emotion and those emotions just hold you back. Oh yes, I’ve been on all the right motivational management courses. But I was also aware that with Molly I’d betrayed a trust and behaved like a shit. I was acutely aware of how much distress I’d caused her. That what she was going through was my fault and my responsibility. So, in fact, guilt was dragging me down.
I’ve never been one to chase women. When I was a teenager, sure, but by the time I was nineteen or twenty I was looking for someone to settle down with. That probably makes me sound boring but I think most normal people are like that. I don’t know what possessed me when I spent the night with Gilchrist. I can think of all sorts of excuses: things bad at work, Molly not understanding or caring, me under stress, drink. Lust, of course. And I was drawn to Gilchrist’s spirit. Although, if I think about it honestly, it was actually because that spirit reminded me of Molly before her depression.
But no doubt about it, Gilchrist and I did click. I think she was as surprised that she went to bed with me as I was. I think she felt as guilty as I did afterwards. And yet there was this tug.
It was by mutual agreement we had decided not to see any more of each other. I loved Molly and, if I could, I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Gilchrist didn’t want to be involved with a married man, especially a married man at work.
But now Gilchrist and I were avoiding each other’s eyes over an embarrassed breakfast of toast and coffee. Gilchrist looked over at the pile of papers on the sofa. I followed her look.
‘The Trunk Murder files. Want to take a look?’
She almost ran over there. I followed. We separated the files. I sat behind my desk, she sat on the sofa and we began to read.
Kate was back on her balcony, memoir in front of her but thinking about her father’s visit. And how her hero-worship had changed to something more negative. Family holidays when she was young. They had always been a bit weird as her dad would then write a piece about them. And both her parents were shameless about using that fact to get deals at hotels and restaurants. She used to squirm at the fake bonhomie they received from maitre d’ and hotel managers who were hoping for a good write-up.
Her mother was more shameless than her father, more imperious, more strident at check-in desks when asking for upgrades. Kate saw the contempt on the faces of the check-in staff, saw her parents – and by implication herself – tagged as freeloaders and liggers.
One incident still made her face burn with shame at her father’s barefaced push and, well, nastiness. It was a press trip to California with half a dozen press families invited to promote a superior camping holiday. On the way out, the rather hunky PR man for the company had got everyone an upgrade to first class. On the four-day trip he’d been pretty good at boosting upgrades and freebies from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara via Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon.
On the way back, the upgrade to first was at the discretion of the airline. Her father had been pretty wrecked from the last-night party. He turned up at check-in bleary-eyed, unshaven, in a baggy T-shirt and scruffy jeans that were too loose at the waist. He looked like a bum.
The tanned man at check-in was gay, of course, with neat hair and a small moustache.
‘I believe there’s a possibility of an upgrade,’ her dad croaked.
The man behind the counter looked at her unkempt father standing before him.
‘We like to think of first class as a rather superior party,’ he said. ‘At which our passengers are the guests.’ He touched the corner of his moustache. ‘We expect our guests to dress accordingly.’
Kate flushed and looked down as she saw her father stiffen. She knew what was coming.
‘Fuck you,’ her father said loudly.
The man behind the counter stiffened.
‘And that is certainly not the kind of language we tolerate in first class. In fact, we may have to reconsider whether we fly you at all.’
Kate was crimson as she looked quickly from side to side to see where she could stand unnoticed. The man behind the counter pointed dramatically at some chairs off to the left.
‘Please,’ he said, his voice quavering almost parodically as he tried to do fierce. ‘Kindly go and wait over there. If we allow you to travel, you will be informed later.’
Both her mother and father stood in front of him, unmoving. When she had replayed this event in her memory as she got older, she had remembered nuances or suddenly realized things (or perhaps fictionalized things). Like the fact the man behind the counter was gay. Her memory had stored that unassimilated at the time, not totally understanding what was going on but like an animal aware of the atmosphere.
It was typical of her parents that not only did they get the upgrade, but the man also ended up apologizing to them for the ‘misunderstanding’.
In the nineties she was watching TV one night and recognized with an embarrassed jolt her parents on the news. It wasn’t her parents but it might as well have been. Hand-held camera footage of Neil and Christine Hamilton bearing down on the Man in the White Suit when he was announcing he was standing against Hamilton in a by-election. The same arrogant attitude; the same self-righteousness; the same hard faces. That was her parents at their worst.
By then her father was inside New Labour and her mother was riding on his coat-tails to write high-profile pieces for the qualities.
She didn’t mean to be so bitchy about her mum. There was just something about her – always had been. Again, things heard but not understood until much later. Kate sitting on the stripped pine stairs whilst a raucous dinner party went on below.
‘Oh, God.’ Her mum’s voice loud, brittle and bored. ‘I suppose that means I’m going to have to give you a blow job tonight.’
