Stella had constructed a timeline showing who had lived in Kew Villa and when. ‘George Watson’ was in bright red. Red hot. He couldn’t tell her that the cuttings about the Ramsay burglary had come from Watson’s house and not from Lucie May. This meant that they couldn’t speculate on why his wife Rosamond had hidden them in her desk. ‘Stella, I’ve been in—’
‘In 1962, as you can see, both Harold and James disappear. They may have moved to let the married couple have privacy,’ Stella said.
‘Or the father died and the brother left,’ Jack murmured. ‘Or they both died.’
‘Or maybe the Watsons bought one or both of them out,’ Stella said. ‘Whatever, the Watsons were there in 1976 and were still there in 2010. Their names are still on the electoral roll.’
‘I met Watson when I was cleaning. He’s a nasty piece of work. Bella works with him. She said she put her foot in it by referring to Tina as his daughter. As I said, when they were kids, Tina told Emily and Bella that the Watsons were her parents. Not that she said they were called the Watsons. Bella didn’t believe her. She did some detective work of her own. She trailed Tina and hung about outside the Kew Villa. She realized that Tina didn’t live there. Enterprising!’ Jack wished he had known Bella Markham when she was a girl.
‘When I went into Kew Villa this afternoon, Mr Watson said his wife had just popped out. It was odd because her coat was there. She could have been upstairs, I suppose.’ Stella pressed ‘print’. Moments later a copy of the Kew Villa timeline slid on to the printer tray. ‘I’ve asked Lucie May to give us background on Rosamond’s family.’ Stella handed Jack the timeline. The red ink highlighting Watson’s name was damp. It glistened like fresh blood.
‘Is that wise?’ Jack was so astounded that Stella had asked for Lucie’s help, he forgot to be annoyed that she hadn’t run it by him. He would have said ‘yes’ if she had.
‘It comes with a price.’ Stella went on with her story. Jack was rapt as she described how she had inveigled herself into Kew Villa.
Stella clicked the mouse and opened Suzie’s database. She pointed at an entry: ‘Jackie did the original estimate. Read this.’
‘Mr Watson said his wife had popped out, but had left instructions. He apologized that Mrs W’s knitting was on an armchair and for a mug of cold tea beside the chair. He offered me a slice of her homemade chocolate cake, which out of politeness I accepted. Only the downstairs rooms are to be cleaned. Mr Watson said that his wife preferred to do the rest of the house.’
‘Watson used the same phrase – “popped out” – today. As I said, her coat was there.’
‘She might have more than one coat.’
‘True,’ Stella conceded. ‘We are no nearer to establishing why Terry was watching the house. He suspected someone had got away with murder. It’s safe to consider the possibility that that someone lived, or is living, in Kew Villa. Today, I’m sure George Watson was hiding something. He wasn’t just cross that I was being inquisitive. He didn’t want me to see Hailes’s boarding pass.’
‘I can see Watson committing murder,’ Jack said. He couldn’t admit breaking into the man’s house. ‘I still wonder if he had a hand in the death of that woman in the sixth car.’
Stella pulled a face. ‘I thought she died of an aneurism.’
‘She did, but... go on with your story.’ No point in adding more mud to muddy waters.
‘I spoke to Wendy. She used to clean for the Watsons. She told me she met Mrs Watson at her first session.’
‘So whatever the crime, Mrs Watson wasn’t the victim.’
‘I thought that, but just before you got here, Wendy rang back. She had mixed up Mrs Watson with another client in Priory Road, partly because, like her other client, Mrs Watson leaves her cake to eat in her break. She’s never met her. Whenever she’s gone there, Mrs Watson has just “popped out”. Mr Watson used the same phrase to her. Or she’s upstairs having a lie-down. The last time Wendy went, Mrs Watson was on the phone. It’s always Mr Watson who she sees. One time a man she didn’t know answered. We’ve got a woman called Hannah cleaning there now, but she’s off sick so I haven’t called her.’
‘I suspect she’ll say the same thing. From Jackie’s database entry, it seems that Watson was at pains to draw attention to the knitting and mug of tea.’ Jack reread the database entry.
‘If clients take ages to answer the door it’s often because they’re scooting about tidying. The last thing they do is point out mess. Oh!’ Stella slammed down her mug.
‘What?’
‘When I had tea with Terry in Kew Gardens, he ordered chocolate cake with hundreds and thousands. I did too when we were there, to prompt my memory, as you know. There was a pot of hundreds and thousands in the Watsons’ kitchen beside empty jars for flour and sugar. Tenuous, but could that be the cake Mrs Watson made for the girl? Was that why he bought it for me that day? He was trying to jog my memory.’
‘More than likely. Did you check the sell-by date on the sprinkles?’
‘I couldn’t have justified it. Cleaning cupboard contents is part of one of our intensive packages.’
Jack knew this. ‘Getting Ready for Spring’ was his favourite one: it was full of hope and fresh alacrity. His mood was not springlike now. Stella had found a way into Kew Villa using her roles of cleaner and detective. She hadn’t lied. He had sneaked in as an intruder and now had to hide critical information from her.
‘Actually, I did have a chance to check the date because Watson went out of the kitchen, but I only realized when he returned.’
‘What was he doing?’ Jack’s antennae were up.
‘I think he was moving the coat.’ Stella blew out her cheeks as the realization dawned.
‘There was no sign of this James Hailes?’
‘He could have been upstairs with Rosamond. Yet I am sure we were alone in the house.’
Jack and Stella were silent as each considered what they had so far.
‘You said Rosamond Watson called Clean Slate just after Terry stopped watching the house. What if these events are connected?’ Jack straightened the black shoe with the buckle in line with the flip-flops.
‘I wondered.’ Stella took Terry’s scalpel out of the pot.
‘Perhaps Watson saw Terry and recognized him as a police officer. A clever response would be to hire the detective’s daughter’s company in your wife’s name. Good cover.’
‘A cleaner goes into the furthest corners. If you’ve something to hide that’s the last type of person you’d want in your house,’ Stella objected.
‘If you want to hide something, put it in plain sight.’ No one knew that better than a True Host. Jack should tell Stella about Cashman; she wouldn’t thank him for allowing the police officer to humiliate her. He looked down. Stanley was sitting at his feet staring up at him as if he had read his mind.
He tried again. ‘Stella—’
Stella’s mobile rang. Jack could see that the screen said Cashman.
‘Hang on.’ Stella swiped open the line. ‘Hi, Martin.’ She broke into a wide smile. Jack clutched his hands to stop them shaking. Cashman was going to tell Stella right now with him there. He made to get up, but Stella mouthed to him to stay.
Jack could hear Cashman talking through the earpiece, but not what he was saying.
‘I only suggested that the man wasn’t Hooker. You’d have thought of that too.’ She made a batting movement with the hand holding the scalpel. Jack winced. ‘Did you get prints off the cigarette packet?’ She paused for Cashman’s reply. ‘Wiped clean? That’s weird. OK, so he wore gloves outside, but he’d have touched them with his bare hands at some stage. Actually, Martin, I did some digging on Winfield... You’ve done that. Good. OK then.’ Stella nodded vigorously as if Cashman could see her. Had he reprimanded her for sticking her nose in? Jack felt a rush of fury, but then Stella went on unperturbed. That Cashman had encouraged her made Jack feel no better. Again he tried to go, but Stella motioned him to stay, the s
calpel blade flashing in the lamplight.
‘It’s about Winfield soft packs.’ Pause. ‘They stopped making the twenty king size in 2008. The soft pack you found on the body has to be six years old minimum. Could whoever planted the fake ID on the body have also planted the cigarettes?’ Pause. Cashman’s voice buzzed like an insect through the phone. The buzzing stopped. Stella said, ‘To make you think he was Australian. The killer might have a magpie temperament, he or she collects stuff to use when the time comes. Not as trophies but as props like in a play. Mum does that. Not that she kills people.’
Jack guessed that Cashman was doubting that the killer would have kept the cigarettes for so long. Glowing with pleasure at Stella’s detective skills, he felt that she had lit upon the truth. True Hosts were often collectors. They kept trophies from killings and disparate items left on trains and buses, in taxis and cafés. He had seen gloves, scarves, wallets, broken necklaces, books and mobile phones stored in cupboards in True Hosts’ homes. Finders keepers. A True Host would, as Stella was suggesting, construct a fake personality from such objects. Jack’s most recently discovered True Host was a botanist. George Watson had at his disposal a vast collection of dead plant specimens. Many waited to be given names and placed within the order. What crime had Watson constructed?
Jack’s pleasure at Stella’s prowess vanished. Cashman was treating her like one of his team. As she talked, Stella tapped the scalpel on a page in her Filofax. The blade was making indentations in the paper. Jack wanted to point this out but then Cashman would realize that he was there. Then Stella said, ‘Tonight? Thing is, I’ve got Jack here.’
Jack froze. Cashman hadn’t told her about his wife. He wanted to say it in person. He would suppose that Jack had told Stella that he had seen him kissing his wife. He would guess that Jack had said nothing or Stella wouldn’t have been so friendly.
‘Tomorrow? Sorted. Me too. Bye then.’ Stella put the phone down. ‘That was Martin,’ she said superfluously.
‘Oh.’ Jack couldn’t say anything. It would compound his failure to tell her about Cashman and his wife. It was usually Stella who did the leaving; he feared for how she would take it.
‘They’ve found CCTV of the man from the Marianne North Gallery in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow. Cashman reckons it won’t be long before they establish where he flew in from.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that. Sounds like they need you on their team.’ He was ashamed of the nasty edge in his voice.
‘I’m on your team,’ Stella replied. Jack felt worse.
‘Cashman may know of Terry’s suspicions.’ This was as close as Jack would go to suggesting she ask Cashman to look on the HOLMES computer.
Stella shrugged and Jack didn’t push it because the last thing he wanted was to encourage her to ask Cashman a favour when the man was two-timing her.
Stella was too involved in Cashman’s business. She would be hurt when he shut her out. Jack went back to his earlier idea. ‘Watson could have hired Clean Slate to prove that he had nothing to hide. He went out of his way to highlight to Jackie that Mrs Watson had been in the house. He gave access to the house – only downstairs – to line up witnesses who would shore up his story. Wendy’s first response was that she had met Mrs Watson. The contract is in Rosamond Watson’s name. He may not have known of the connection between you and the detective staking him out.’
‘And his story is?’ Stella appeared to catch herself waving the scalpel about; she placed it on the desk beside The Cat in the Hat.
‘That Mrs Watson is alive—’
‘—when she’s dead!’ Stella cried. ‘The murder that Terry let someone get away with was of Rosamond Watson.’ She picked up the scalpel again and, considerations of health and safety apparently forgotten, carved the air. ‘James Hailes returns from India to see his sister—’
‘So Watson has to stop Hailes finding out that she’s dead.’
Stella dropped her voice as if, in the silent darkened house, someone was listening. ‘George Watson murdered James Hailes in the Marianne North Gallery. With a scalpel.’
‘But we have absolutely no proof,’ Jack said.
Chapter Fifty-Two
November 2014
Stella didn’t go to bed after Jack left. She sat at the desk ruminating over Tina’s ‘clues’ ranged before her. Pink flip-flops, a child’s storybook, a black shoe with a buckle, a botanical illustration of a eucalyptus scribbled with numbers and the silver locket and the picture of Tina’s nan. Tina had been upset when Stella had suggested that the locket was hers, a reasonable assumption since it was under her desk. Since Tina had died, Stella had decided that it was the cancer that had upset her. But now she wondered. Tina had behaved as if the locket was the last straw. She had received a call and left the office. Who had called her?
Where was Tina’s phone? Michelle Banks must have taken it from the hospice. Stella was about to text her but then saw the time. Michelle wouldn’t thank her for waking her up at past one in the morning. She made a note in her Filofax to call her tomorrow, hoping that Michelle hadn’t wiped the call log.
Stella went over what Tina had said that morning. As Jack had pointed out, Tina was a lawyer: she used words precisely.
‘Is this yours?’
‘No... A client must have dropped it.’
Stella had supposed that Tina was denying knowledge of the locket as well as ownership. Jack had also said that lawyers were adept at skirting truths without lying. Had Tina been truthful, but not completely so? The locket didn’t belong to her, but she had known whose it was. When Tina asked to see Bella and Emily before her death, she told them that she had stolen the photo to prove to Bella that the Watsons were her parents. Were the people in the tiny heart-shaped photograph George and Rosamond Watson in happier times?
Stella opened the casing and looked again at the photograph of the young man and woman kissing. If the locket was the one stolen from Judge Ramsay’s house in the 1950s, then originally it must have contained pictues of Judge Ramsay’s father, and his wife. Watson must have removed them.
The man had dark hair; George Watson was now grey. This man had a mole at his jawline; she hadn’t looked closely at Watson so couldn’t vouch for a mole one way or the other. Jack would have noticed. There was something about the bone structure that suggested the elderly man who had shown her round the downstairs of his house that afternoon, but the resemblance was passing.
She weighed the locket in her cupped palm. It was solid, yet light; the silver was cold. She put it down and absently opened The Cat in the Hat. The story was still fresh in her mind. The drawings were as disturbing, and the same coil of disquiet stirred within her as the cat created more and more mess. On page twenty-eight something fell out and sailed to the floor. Stanley’s head shot up from his bed; rising to his feet, he prepared to investigate.
‘Stay!’ Stella scooped up the paper.
It was a photocopy of two newspaper cuttings. The same ones that Jack had given her and that she had seen in the archives.
The quality of the silence had altered. She swivelled around in her chair. The attic hatch remained shut. Jack had closed the study door behind him when he left. The feeling she had had earlier that they were not alone returned. Stella got up and approached the door. She stood, her ear to the wood, and listened. She could only hear the blood pulsing in her head. Stanley sat up in his bed, ears cocked, eyes liquid dark. He had heard something. Stella pulled open the door.
Stanley flew past her and down the stairs to the hall, snorting and panting. Dogs were meant to provide company and protection and allay fears. More often Stanley caused fear or, like now, exacerbated it by behaving as if there truly was an external threat. Stella crept to the top of the stairs and looked down into the hall. Diffused light spilled through the glazed panels in the front door. A shadow flicked across one panel and she prickled with rising terror. The shadow was of the tree opposite. There was no one there.
She looked along the land
ing to what had been her parents’ bedroom and where, for the last forty years, Terry had slept. Raised voices carried through the closed door: her mum and dad were arguing. Lack of sleep was playing with her nerves.
Beckoning Stanley – Stella couldn’t have used her voice had she wanted to – she returned to the study and slumped back in the chair. The change of state had been in her mind; it had signified a shift in perception. She and Jack had amassed clues and connections; it was like a thousand-piece jigsaw with a choice of pictures. George Watson had murdered his wife. Hailes had murdered his sister. Rosamond Watson was alive so no one had murdered her. Or she had died of natural causes years ago and there was no mystery? Stella rubbed at her temples as a headache threatened.
On page twenty-eight of The Cat in the Hat, she had found another clue. Another connection. Reaching for her diagram, Stella drew an arrow from The Cat in the Hat to the ‘Newspaper Articles’ and one from each to Tina.
Martin wouldn’t thank her for talking to the press, especially Lucie May. She dialled her.
‘Surprise, surprise!’ Lucie May was being Cilla Black.
‘Can I see you?’ Stella asked.
‘Yes, Detective Darnell, you so can!’
*
‘He kept his cards close to his chest!’ Tented in a man’s woolly pullover, arms wrapped around her knees, Lucie May contemplated her e-cigarette. It wasn’t switched on, but Stella assumed that she realized this; she vaguely remembered that Lucie had been trying to give up. ‘We had a pact. Terry gave me the heads-up on a case and I kept stuff out of the paper until he gave me the nod. We were a team.’
‘He said he had let someone get away with murder. What did he mean?’
‘I took it as a turn of phrase. I told Jack that Terry said that, because of you, he’d been misled. That’s the polite word. In June 1976. But you know this. What have you got for me?’ Lucie May was ruthless, but Stella liked that she didn’t hide this.
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