Page 65 of The Tapes
I hadn’t believed in my daughter, hadn’t seen her for who she was, and then I’d told her that outright.
Things were different after that. We probably argued less, although a part of that was because we didn’t see as much of each other. Pamela continued on to college for her A-levels and she also got her first proper boyfriend. We argued about him, of course. I didn’t like his tattoos, or the short Mohican along the centre of his otherwise shaved head. I wasn’t a fan of his nose ring, or the disc that expanded his earlobe.
But that was me missing the point again.
He was a good young man, who treated my daughter well. There was no longer a desire to sneak into clubs, or skip classes. In many ways, that rebellious part of her life was over – except I missed it because she now had a pair of nose piercings and another through her lip. I saw the surface, never what was underneath.
So we fought about that and about her boyfriend – and it’s impossible to remember why I felt like that. Things that were big then are insignificant now. Pamela loved that boy, and, really, that was all that should have mattered. Except I remembered my father telling me how tattoos on a person meant they’d never get a real job, never contribute to society. That others would always look down on them. His opinions had somehow become mine, even though I’m not sure I ever really believed it.
And we argued.
It was about Pamela’s boyfriend but, really, it was about me. I always regretted not getting the university education I wished I had, and I was so desperate for Pamela to have that. I wanted her to live my life, not hers.
And that’s why, at three minutes past nine in the morning, Pamela said I was being over-dramatic. She left the house – and I never saw her again.
Back on Sedingham’s main street, I head past Tails towards the corner, then follow the pavement up a slight hill, past a bus stop and a church. There’s a small play park, where a boy is attempting to walk up the slide, and then a row of shops.
Pamela was last seen on the grainy CCTV outside the chip shop that has been offering the same large sausage and chips lunchtime special for as long as I can remember. She would have probably been heading for the bus stop, where she would have caught the number eight that would have taken her to the record shop where her boyfriend worked. She would hang around while he was on shift. Despite not being an employee, there were plenty of customers who later remembered her helping them find items, or who asked for her recommendations. She was known in a way I’d never realised. The owner himself joked that he had two employees for the price of one, saying she helped reorganise the entire stock, unprompted and unpaid.
Except, on that day, nobody saw her get on the bus, the driver didn’t remember her, and she never made it to the record shop.
The last person she spoke to was in the mini supermarket, next to the chip shop. Pamela bought a packet of cigarettes – something else over which we argued – and she told the girl behind the counter that she liked her Metallica T-shirt. Pamela paid, then left.
The shop is a Londis now, with an A-frame sign outside advertising ice lollies, and a bin that has scorch marks across the top, plus a graffitied ‘AJ’ on the side.
I’m on the spot where my daughter was last seen.
Three days later, the body of Pamela Mallory was found in a gully near a sewer outlet around six miles from this spot. Thenext time I saw my daughter was for the official identification in the mortuary, ahead of the autopsy. There was a single jet-black plastic stud in one of her earlobes, while the other was bare.
Pamela was a victim of the Earring Killer – the first in six years since Sarah Graham; the eighth in sixteen years.
And then, precisely as Harry Bailey said, Pamela became a number. His wife, Janine, was number two; Pamela was number eight. Articles would be written in which the name ‘Pamela’ was barely used, yet the number ‘eight’ appeared multiple times. There was a clamour, a rush. Would the Earring Killer reach double figures? How long would it take?
People looked at me differently, and they talked about Pamela differently. That’s how people like Harry Bailey at the cricket club, and Alan Ilverston, who lives on the canal, came into my life. Others, too. So many others. We’re all connected by a single person – the Earring Killer.
Pamela Mallory became number eight – but she wasn’t the last.
SATURDAY
THIRTY-TWO
Vivian Mallory looks hardly anything like the profile photo on her author website. In that, she has flowing gingery locks, and a curt, tight, non-expression as she stares at a point a fraction off-camera. In real life, she’s greyer, and older. The wrinkles are deeper and a general tiredness hangs over her, as if she hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep since she first started using a keyboard.
Perhaps all authors are greyer, older, wrinklier, and more tired in real life?
She’s happy to see me, though.
‘Eve, my word! Gosh! It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it?’
I wish I remembered her but Vivian is a mystery to me. She was Mum’s friend, and I know the name, though there’s no recognition on my end beyond the author website through which I trawled last night. I sent an email through her page and woke to find a reply inviting me to her house. I’m not sure why, but I assumed creative types lived in massive houses but Vivian’s is an unassuming end of terrace that’s part of a housing association block. A pizza menu is hanging half from her letterbox but she ignores it as she waves me inside.
We go through the whole ‘Tea? Coffee?’ thing, before we end up in her living room. A pair of battered sofas are more for comfort than appearance, which I think is the best way. I’m almost swallowed as we sit across from one another.
‘It was such a delight to see your name in my email,’ Vivian says. ‘I saw “Falconer” and instantly thought of your mum. I thought it was a coincidence, then I realised it was you.’
I’m a little blank, because there’s such familiarity from her that I can’t return.
‘You said you wanted to ask something about your mum…?’ she prompts.
