The Elephant Girl(43)

Opening the door, she came face to face with Lee, and the shock made her drop her wash bag. He picked it up and handed it back to her, his eyes darting from side to side as if looking for an escape route.

‘Thank you.’

‘No prob-b-blem.’

He was in slouchy trousers and bare feet, showing off his flawless golden chest. Charlie was right, what a waste for him to spend half his time behind bars. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, like Jason had.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I appreciate you keeping to yourself and all that, but could you please make a bit of noise when you’re around? I get sort of freaked out when you’re suddenly behind me, and I haven’t heard you.’

Lee grinned.

‘You like freaking people out?’

He shook his head.

‘So do you think you could let me know you’re there next time?’

He nodded.

‘You don’t say much, do you?’

‘My big m-m-mouth. Always gets me into trouble. I k-keep my head down now.’ He sent her a dazzling smile and disappeared into the bathroom.

In a way, what he said made sense to her. Just like Lee retreated behind his stutter, she’d been hiding away behind her epilepsy, allowing it to define her. To come out she needed to have faith in other people that they would treat her like a normal person.

But where did you find such faith? It didn’t grow on trees.

Heading back to her room, she saw a flickering light from under Fay’s door and stopped.

Candles.

In Goa she’d lit candles every night before going to bed. One for her mother, one for her father, and one for herself. Plus a handful of others for practical reasons as the electricity supply was sometimes unpredictable. By candlelight her demons diminished so they were no bigger or threatening than the shadows she could make on the wall with her hands. It was in daylight people might spot the aberration behind the façade.

Did Fay light candles for the same reason? She was tempted to just ask.

She lifted her hand to knock, then hesitated. Aggie’s scrapbook had been screaming Fay’s name at her all afternoon, but the more the newspapers were convinced of Fay’s guilt, the less Helen was, now that she’d met her. Still, she was hardly a friend.

Dropping her hand, she returned to her room.

Her sleep was plagued by confusion, and she woke, exhausted and full of doubts as to whether she was doing the right thing. Her mother died twenty years ago – even if she contacted the detective named in the newspaper clippings, he probably couldn’t be much help.

When she entered Ealing police station, her heart beat a little faster. Last time she was here she’d screamed the building down when she realised her mother was dead, and she tried hard not to look at the door she’d come through then. Instead she headed straight for a clerk behind a glass partition who informed her that Wilcox had long since left and was now a Chief Superintendent working at Scotland Yard’s Homicide Unit.

‘I can call him if you like,’ he offered.

‘That’d be great, thanks.’

The clerk disappeared to a room behind the reception, was gone for ages and left her wondering whether his absence meant good news or bad news, but when he returned, he was smiling.

‘He says he remembers you and would be happy to see you this afternoon if you’re not busy.’

Not busy? Helen could hardly believe her luck. Could it really be that easy?

At Scotland Yard she made her way to Back Hall as instructed, where she was asked to empty her pockets and step through a metal detector. Then she waited. Eventually a uniformed officer showed her upstairs.

Chief Superintendent Barry Wilcox rose as she entered his office. Looking every bit the career detective, he wore a grey suit, a smoky-blue shirt and tie. His hair was blondish-grey, his eyes sharp, and Helen took him to be in his mid-fifties now.

When he held out his hand, she almost expected him to give her another tube of Smarties.

‘Little Yelena Stephanov. This is a surprise.’

She shook his hand. ‘I’m not so little any more. I grew up very fast.’

‘I bet you did.’ His eyes searched her face. ‘Please sit down.’

‘And I haven’t gone under that name in years.’

‘You’re married?’ he asked.

‘No, just Anglicised.’

That produced a laugh. ‘Fair enough. It was quite a mouthful.’

‘It was my grandmother’s idea,’ she said. ‘In the children’s home they had me down as Helen Stephens. Apparently she was afraid I’d be teased. New identity, new life, and all that.’

Not that it did her much good. Some things you couldn’t run from.

Wilcox nodded sagely.