Page 34 of Good Bad Girl

It’s clear that Ladybug has been lying to her, about several things.

“Don’t worry, Dickens. We just need to come up with a plan,” Edith says, but she thinks the dog knows her too well because he stares up at her with big sad eyes. Her dog knows when she is happy, he knows when she is sad, and he knows when she is scared. Her dog knows her better than any person ever has. He whimpers quietly and Edith doesn’t know how to comfort him because he is right to worry. “First of all, we need to get rid of this.”

Edith reaches beneath the pew where they sat yesterday, until her fingers find the plastic bag hidden beneath it. When she is sure she is alone, she takes a peek inside. Edith never liked this thing. Why her former colleagues at the supermarket gave her a bronze statue of a magnifying glass as a retirement gift she’ll never know. She appreciated the gesture, but she would rather have had the cash. The statue has been wiped clean, but there are bound to be traces of blood still on the thing. She doesn’t need to be a real detective to know that. Edith knows the difference between when things need to be hidden, and when things need to be gotten rid of—it’s something she’s had to do before—and the murder weapon definitely needs to disappear.

Frankie

Frankie worries she is wasting her time sitting in the camper van outside Kennedy’s Gallery, but her gut instinct is to stay. It was obvious that Jude Kennedy was lying about something—he seems like the variety of man who struggles with the concept of honesty—and she is now certain that the papercuts he was selling were made by her daughter. If he lied about knowing who she is, he might be lying about knowing where she is. Frankie still left when Jude asked her to, but has been watching the gallery ever since.

So far, she has counted twenty-eight people walking past: nineteen women, nine men. There have also been twelve black cabs, three people walking their dogs, and one ice cream van. Frankie sees a traffic warden approaching and curses beneath her breath. She’s already had to drive around the block once to avoid getting a ticket. The street is chockablock full of double yellow lines making it impossible to park legally, but nowhere else has a clear view of the gallery. Which is still closed, even though its opening hours clearly state it shouldn’t be.

Frankie takes her eyes off the gallery for a moment to stare up at the beautiful old church she is parked outside. The sign says it is called St. Paul’s, and she can see what looks like a secret walled garden behind the building. It’s the kind of place she knows her daughter would love to spend time in. Her little girl always liked old churches and graveyards, she liked a lot of things that gave Frankie the creeps. Daughters don’t always take after their mothers.

Frankie’s tummy rumbles rather loudly, reminding her that she hasn’t eaten anything today. There is a cute looking café just down the road. Maybe she could leave the van here for a short while, some coffee would certainly help wake her up, and if she sits in the window she’ll still be able to see the gallery. Hunger and tiredness persuade her to risk it.

She doesn’t see the police car pull up farther down the street as she steps inside the café.

Frankie hasn’t “dined out” for months. The place is cheap and cheerful but it feels surreal and extravagant. She finds a cozy table for one and starts reading the menu.

She doesn’t see two policemen walk toward the gallery.

It is only a breakfast menu but there are so many options. People have far too many choices these days. Frankie decides to order two of the classic breakfasts—one to eat in, one to take away. She’ll give it to the homeless person sitting on the street outside. She gives her order to the waitress, who makes excessive small talk about the weather in hope of a tip.

Frankie doesn’t see a girl being put into a police car by the same detective who visited her boat this morning.

The food she orders arrives quickly, but her phone beeps inside her bag before she can take a bite, which means she doesn’t see the police car drive past the window. Her phone hasn’t made a sound for almost a year—unless it was an alarm she set herself—and the unexpected noise makes her jump. She checks the time on herMickey Mouse watch, and presumes it must be work getting in touch to see why she hasn’t turned up today. But it isn’t someone from the prison. It’s her daughter. Almost exactly a year since she ran away.

The text message is short, just three words:

HELP ME MUM.

Clio

“You shouldn’t have called the police,” Clio says, following her brother as they climb the steps back up to the attic. She is relieved the detective left straightaway with the girl and didn’t bother coming upstairs: it might have been awkward if DCI Chapman had discovered Cliohere. Another police officer spoke to Clio and Jude after Patience had been driven away, but there are still so many other unanswered questions.

“Why shouldn’t I have called them?” Jude asks, in the sulky tone he reserves just for her.

“Because if the girl does know where Mum is, she isn’t going to tell us now.”

Jude is out of breath already—he has always had a distant relationship with exercise—but the stairs are no rival for Clio. She marches on ahead, hoping to reach the attic before him, buy herself some time. She tries to think but her thoughts are scared of the facts. Maybe she has made a mistake.

“Mum didn’t trust anyone—not even us—so why would shetrust some random girl she’s only just met in a care home?” Clio says, thinking out loud. Jude doesn’t reply. “Are you telling me the answer telepathically?” she asks but he still doesn’t answer. Probably thinking about how to fix the problem instead of what caused the problem, as always. Clio wonders what the girl will tell the police.

“Explain it to me again,” she says. “How thisteenagerstarted living here, and how she then got a job working at the care home where our mother was living? That seems like an awfully big coincidence and you know I don’t believe in those.”

Jude shrugs, the same way he used to as a child when he didn’t want to answer a question. He starts to fiddle with his cuff links, just visible on the crisp white shirt poking out from the sleeves of his tailored jacket. But then he surprises her when something sounding like the truth comes tumbling out of his mouth.

“The girl just showed up here about a year ago. She was a scrawny little bird of a thing with a rucksack on her back and a real attitude in her voice. She thought I was her long-lost dad, can you believe that?” He laughs, but Clio doesn’t.

“Am I supposed to Columbo what you just said, or are you going to tell me what it means? Why on earth would she think thatyouwere her father?” she asks, and it is clear they have reverted to the squabbling siblings they once were.

“Perhaps a simple case of wishful bloody thinking? If you stop gabbling and trylisteningfor a change I’ll tell you what happened. No wonder you can’t get enough clients these days, they come to you for therapy and probably can’t get a word in. As I wastryingto say, I explained to the girl that I wasn’t her father—having never slept with a woman it seemed fairly unlikely—and she started crying and... I felt sorry for her. She had clearly run away from someone or something and I wanted to help. If anything I think she reminded me of you, when you ran away. When we were still kids. So I said she could stay up here in the attic for a while.”

Clio doesn’t want to think about whensheran away from home, or why. That was a lifetime ago. “Did the girl pay rent?” she asks instead.

“No.”

“But then... what was in it for you?”

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