Page 34 of Guilty Mothers

Kim turned to Stacey. ‘Bryant and I have a couple of calls to make, so your top priority is the pageants. Were the daughters on the circuit at the same time? Were there any issues, any enemies, any fights, any scandal?’

‘Got it, boss.’

‘Look at the family members of both victims too. Start with Sheryl, as relatives seem to be a bit thin on the ground. Check other areas to see if there’s anything similar happening elsewhere. That should be enough to keep you going for now.’

‘On it, boss.’

Kim headed to the Bowl for her jacket.

Here they were again. Finding out that what they’d been presented with had been an illusion. It was not as cut and dried as their first assessment had seemed. One victim and one suspect. They had thought it was an isolated incident and that no one else was at risk. With a second victim already in the morgue, she knew they were behind the clock, and she prayed they could catch up before anyone else lost their life.

The puzzle board had been placed on the table and they knew the subject matter, but they were waiting for the pieces to fall so they could be arranged into a cohesive, sensible picture.

The first piece was currently under lock and key at Bushey Fields.

Before their second victim, pageants had been no more than a detail to examine while unpicking what appeared to be a complex and toxic relationship between a mother and her daughter.

With the discovery of a second pageant mum found dead, Kim was forced to wonder exactly what these two mums had done to deserve such punishment. What did they have in common? Were pageants to blame for the hostility between Katie and Sheryl? And what exactly had life as a pageant girl been like?

TWENTY-FOUR

I look down at the plate and the tears sting my eyes. Three lettuce leaves and a tomato cut in half. I can see the rip marks at the edge of the lettuce where the brown bits have been torn away. The skin of the tomato looks soft and saggy, no longer firm and fresh. My stomach grumbles in protest. It’s fiveo’clock and I’ve eaten nothing since a single Weetabix smashed with thin, watery milk for breakfast.

‘Don’t even think about complaining. You’ve put on a pound since last week’s weigh-in. Just a few days and you’ll be back to normal or even thinner, if possible. We all have to make sacrifices. It’s just a BLT without the bacon or bread. It’s that or nothing.’

‘Okay, Mommy,’ I say, knowing it’ll do me no good to complain.

‘Come on. Eat up,’ she says, tapping her watch. ‘Back to practise in three minutes.’

She watches me as I eat what tastes like a plate of water. All too soon it’s gone and I feel like I’ve eaten nothing.

‘Okay, get dressed and come to the lounge,’ she says before heading out of the room to fix herself a drink.

I remove my clothes and slip the new pink dress over my head. I’m willing and praying for it to feel looser so that I can have something to eat, but as I slide it over my body, I know it’s still pulling at the seams. If Mom sees this, I might not even get a Weetabix in the morning.

The sequins around the neckline scratch at my face as I lower the dress and put my arms through the sleeves. As it comes to rest, it’s as though each sequin finds the exact spot it rubbed earlier.

I pull on the shoes. They’re new and stiff. The hard leather made the skin on my heel look like a prune before the skin disappeared altogether and left behind a raw circle. Each time I put them back on, the soreness is worse than before, but I know that I have to wear them.

I make my way into the lounge, trying to walk as normally as possible. I know what she’ll say if I show the pain.

I see the books and the oranges and know it’s going to be a long night. The fuzzy feeling comes into my tummy.

‘Mommy, I have homework,’ I breathe. I have to draw and name all seven continents.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. What important homework could a seven-year-old have? Teachers are just trying to palm off their jobs. I’ll send a note.’

I recognise the steel in her voice. There’s no point protesting. She’ll ignore me. If I tell her that I don’t like the look of disapproval Miss Hichins gives me, she’ll laugh. If I explain that I get funny looks from my classmates because I never hand in anything to be marked, she’ll sneer.

‘We’ll do your walk first,’ she says, putting a book on my head.

I know to stand perfectly still until she has returned to her chair to observe me. She sits and nods.

I move slowly at first. If I move too quickly straight away, the book will fall down my back. I see the frustration in her eyes at my speed, but I’ve learned that the irritation comes much quicker if she has to keep getting up to replace the book.

‘Ten lengths and we’ll move on to the oranges.’

I don’t let the panic show on my face. Ten lengths of the living room is much further than the distance I walk on the stage. If I drop the book once, we start again from the beginning. I’ve only ever managed ten lengths once before, and I didn’t have new shoes then. I want to point this out, but I know better. If I argue, she’ll increase the lengths to twelve.