Ghost Girl

by Thomson, Lesley

  ‘It was nothing.’ Stella squeezed her empty tea beaker until it cracked. ‘I hope you feel better soon.’ Marian had gone.

  ‘She’s a diamond.’ Cashman pushed away from the cabinet. ‘Here week in, week out. Marian’s missed one day in the last twenty-five years.’

  Stella whisked her cloth at the vacated desk. ‘I suppose you need Marian to keep up with processing traffic-accident figures.’ This was the nearest she would go to asking Cashman outright about Terry’s streets. And then, conscious of the non sequitur: ‘Like that boy Marian mentioned.’

  ‘I wish! We don’t analyse traffic incidents. They’re a second cousin to crime. Even if we did, we don’t have the resources to follow up. That was one of Terry’s beefs.’ Suddenly he was efficient; rubbing his hands together, he crossed to the door. ‘Stella, you manage people. Did she look OK to you?’

  Stella didn’t think of herself as managing people. ‘Yes. Well, apart from the fall.’ So Terry had been bothered about traffic incidents.

  ‘Lucky it was you that found her. Terry’s daughter can do no wrong! Your dad was a god to her. I’m a poor substitute!’

  Alone in the office, Stella could not wipe away the sight of Mrs Hampson bleeding on the stones. She should call Jack. Terry would have checked on his team after a trauma. Martin Cashman had sent a key staff member home because of a bruise. Stella had no idea about managing people.

  When she returned to the toilets it was after eight and the station was busy. She wouldn’t clean with women coming in and out; clients resented their privacy being disturbed.

  She did not know what made her go into the cubicle where Marian had fallen, lock the door and sit on the closed toilet lid. Her knees were an inch from the door, the tiled walls close to her shoulders. There was little room to move, what with a plastic bin for sanitary towels, another Gina-Ware product. The porcelain toilet-paper dispenser was inset flush into the tiles. It had not caused the injury.

  Marian Williams was not a small woman so it was freakish that she had hurt herself in the tight space. Bad luck that she got such a drastic bruise; she must bruise easily.

  Someone entered the adjacent toilet. Stella hurried out, wheeling the bucket-wringer ahead of her like a child’s toy.

  At the lights on Shepherd’s Bush Green, Stella recalled Cashman’s prediction that Mrs Hampson’s death was an accident fuelled by alcohol. It was as unlikely as Marian’s injury. Terry said there was no such thing as an accident. For once he was wrong. Odd things did happen.

  The lights went to green. Mulling on Jack, Stella concluded that if she rang to offer him support, he would be embarrassed. She would be.

  Some things were best unsaid.

  39

  Tuesday, 1 May 2012

  The electronic Big Ben clangs were strident. Stella had seen David Barlow three times now and on each occasion his manner had been warm and understated. The doorbell must have come with the house. But he had said he had lived here for over thirty years. The chimes must be his wife’s choice. She jumped at the click of a latch behind her.

  ‘Come this way, Stella.’

  David held open the side gate. Lit by a strip of afternoon sunlight, he appeared taller while oddly less substantial. Something was draped over his left arm. Stella shifted her equipment bag on her shoulder and crunched over the gravel to him.

  The ‘something’ was a small apricot dog. It took Stella a moment to recognize the stray from the riverbank. Washed and brushed, it had come up a lighter shade with ears brown and sticking out as, rapt with attention, it pinned its gaze on her. The dark brown unblinking eyes suggested attack if she got too close.

  ‘You kept it.’ Stella avoided contact with animals; she passed clients with pets to her staff. Such clients had a lower standard of what she considered clean.

  ‘He had no microchip or collar. The vet reckoned he’d been dumped because the owners couldn’t afford the upkeep. No reports of a lost poodle. The vet thought he’d been living rough a while.’ David Barlow lifted the dog’s paw. ‘Stanley, meet Stella!’

  ‘Stanley?’ Stella tried to sound neutral. She was uncomfortable with giving pets human names; it made the boundaries fuzzy.

  ‘My father was called Stanley.’ David Barlow ushered her down the side passage of the house.

  Stella could not name a dog after Terry. It would be as if Terry was the dog. Jack believed that when people died their energy was redistributed, he would probably approve. That pets caused mess and fuss was one thing she and her mum agreed on.

  She stepped on to the lawn and relaxed. A flawless green – not a weed or a bare patch – with the grass cut so short it propelled her along.

  ‘Watch.’ David lowered his hand and the dog sank to the ground. It flicked looks at Stella. She glared at the whites of its eyes.

  ‘Stanley?’ The dog shot around, tail pert. ‘Ssssit!’ He raised his hand, palm up. It rose to a sitting position. Despite herself Stella was impressed.

  ‘Poodles are smart.’ David scooped up the dog. Paws hanging like bagpipes, it contemplated Stella’s equipment bag. ‘We never had dogs. Jennifer didn’t like animals: too much mess. I’m suspicious of anyone who doesn’t like animals.’ He jiggled the dog in his arms. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll get started.’

  ‘Let’s have tea out here first. Though if you are going somewhere later…’

  Stella was due at Terry’s house, but at no particular time. Terry wouldn’t be there. When he was alive, she often rang to say she was running late.

  ‘That would be nice.’ David wasn’t like a client, she told herself.

  ‘Hold him while I bring everything out.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Stella knew where the dog had been.

  ‘He likes you.’ David Barlow lifted it into Stella’s arms.

  Stella stood on the lawn, the poodle lolling on her forearm, paws spilling. She held her breath against a doggy odour, but when at last she inhaled only caught David’s aftershave. She sniffed properly. Warm clean wool and the invigorating fragrance that she had yet to identify. Her sense of smell was laser sharp and she divined something else pleasing. David. Jack said that if you didn’t like a person’s body odour you could never be close to them even if you liked them. Stella had supposed he meant her. She made sure to smell of nothing personal. She wasn’t close to Jack. She patted the dog. Pat. Pat. It whisked around and licked her knuckles. Stella snatched her hand away.

  ‘I knew you’d have a way with him.’ David was passing with the tea tray. ‘Come on, dog whisperer!’ he laughed over his shoulder.

  A green wrought-iron table was set beneath a matching umbrella at the end of the garden, screened by a trellis trailing with red roses. Stella blinked away the crimson of Amanda Hampson’s blood coagulating on pale limestone. She squeezed the dog; it licked her hand again. She didn’t wipe it dry.

  David had been sitting here: his notebook and pen were on the table. A letter with the logo for the insurance company Terry had used for his car lay open. There were three chairs. Wildly she envisaged Jennifer Barlow joining them. Jack said ghosts were everywhere. She pulled herself together and sat carefully on the nearest chair, supporting the dog.

  David unpacked the tea things. Another cake. Stella expected the dog to leap over to him when she sat down, but instead it turned around on her lap twice, flopped down and, head tucked into its chest, went to sleep.

  ‘Just got that.’ He indicated the letter. ‘We’re not getting anything for the burglary.’ He slipped it back into the envelope. ‘Police found no signs of forced entry, no proof of a crime. They’re not accusing us outright of making a false claim, but…’ His good mood seemed to have evaporated.

  ‘They find any excuse not to pay up,’ Stella agreed. She was discouraged by his use of ‘we’. Her first instinct had been right: Barlow still loved his wife. Stella would not be a substitute. She regarded the third chair. Someone, Jack probably, said that dogs sensed the presence of ghosts. She looked at
the sleeping poodle. No ghosts here. Still, she would eat the cake, do the cleaning and go.

  ‘Jennifer insisted I report the break-in to the police. She made me go every week to see if they’d got anywhere. Of course they hadn’t. Then she died. I only submitted the claim a month ago. More for her sake. I’m guessing they found the time lapse of four months suspicious. I’m not sorry. The burglars were welcome to all of it. Its value was sentimental, more to Jennifer than me.’

  ‘Odd they didn’t take any electrical goods.’ Stella heard that she sounded suspicious. ‘Specialized thieves target what they can fence.’ She stopped. David had risked his life to save a dog. He would not make a false insurance claim.

  ‘Spoken like the daughter of a police officer!’ David slotted the letter into his notebook and laid it on the grass. ‘“God is watching you,”’ she’d say, ‘“he sees all our transgressions.” She promised she’d be watching me too. Absurd!’ He gave a wry smile and poured the tea.

  It wasn’t absurd. Over the last year, eating shepherd’s pies in Terry’s kitchen, and cleaning his house, Stella felt Terry watching.

  ‘This is her seed cake. Are you OK with almonds?’

  Stella smiled, reluctant to eat anything made by a dead woman.

  ‘By the end Jennifer could hardly speak or walk, then three days before she died, the Tuesday, she was her old self. A miracle, she said. “God has given me a day to spend wisely.”’ He thrust the point of the blade into the sponge. ‘Her voice was strong, she could walk – with a frame – even dress herself. She baked seven cakes. She often did that, for fairs, charity or whatnot, but these were for me. “Keep me in your thoughts,” she said. She put them in the freezer saying she’d know if I gave them away. This is number six.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you eat them?’ Stella was too late to stop David tipping a large slice onto her plate.

  ‘Call me unfeeling.’ He gazed over the dog. ‘Life has to be about more than being obedient.’ He talked between mouthfuls of cake, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. ‘That dog is pure joy.’ He gave her a shy smile.

  Stella, concentrating on restoring order and keeping surfaces spotless, had not thought about life in these terms.

  ‘We were unsuited. By the end it was a loveless relationship. Got so you never knew what was around the corner. There, I’ve said it!’ He stopped eating. ‘“Grab life while you can,” to quote Stanley Barlow! Dad didn’t take to Jennifer, said she was “starchy”. He’d approve of… of me starting again.’ He cut himself another piece.

  Stella didn’t mention Terry’s shepherd’s pies, not that Terry had cooked them or insisted she eat them. Besides, she had bought them herself when they had run out. Once the freezer was empty she would sell the house.

  A thought occurred: ‘Did you find the jacket?’ Distracted by the dog, Stella had forgotten the jacket behind the bath panel.

  ‘I did. More cake?’ He held up a piece balanced on the blade.

  Silly question, of course he had. ‘I’m fine thanks.’ He was no longer smiling.

  ‘I’d better get on.’ She gathered up the dog, still in a ball, and stood up. She shouldn’t have mentioned the jacket. Cleaning is our business; what we find is their business. The sun had gone in; the air was cooler.

  ‘I shall take this little lad out for a walk.’ David Barlow scrambled the plates and cups on to the tray.

  Only a third of the cake was left. Despite the disparaging comments, he must like it. Stella had never baked a cake. Nor would she.

  They walked across the lawn to the house. The dog struggled up on to Stella’s shoulder. David put the tray on the kitchen table and came back outside.

  The silence was broken by a drawn-out mewing sound. The dog smacked his lips and nuzzled into the crook of Stella’s neck.

  ‘He’s yawning!’ David tickled the dog under the chin and the back of his hand caught her cheek. He was looking at her, smiling again.

  ‘Stanley’s my second chance. You too,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not a believer in God, nor do I hold with things being meant, but hanging out like this, it’s OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ David didn’t care about the jacket. It must have belonged to whoever lived here before. His wife had died four months ago, he respected her memory, but he had been honest about the relationship. Everyone deserved a second chance.

  When she handed him the dog again, Stella caught David’s smell on the animal’s coat. It could be possible to get on with a person with that smell.

  After David had gone, Stella lugged her bag into the downstairs bathroom that he’d had installed when his wife couldn’t get upstairs. He’d done a lot for a woman he didn’t love. She snapped on rubber gloves. Another bath, another bath panel.

  She liked David Barlow. They could have tea and then she could clean. No demands, no promises. Suzie said that Stella’s trouble was she didn’t know what she wanted even when it was under her nose. She might have a point. Jackie kept saying Stella needed to trust people more. She trusted David.

  40

  Tuesday, 1 May 2012

  ‘Ring when you get this. Tell me how you are. No, come round and we can catch up. Take stock,’ she added. Jack would not come if it was only to tell her how he was. She rang off and finger-dabbed up the last of the shepherd’s pie, a habit her mother had disliked when Stella lived with her, but now did herself. Jack had not been in touch all day; she would rather he was sulking than was upset about Amanda Hampson. She couldn’t shake the idea, either, that he somehow knew about her tea with David. So what if he did?

  Jack was not the only man who hadn’t called. Nor had David. She checked her messages again although she hadn’t missed any. It was five and a half hours since she had opened the bath panel and, squatting on her haunches, stared unbelieving into the dark space.

  A treasure trove. Three crucifixes and five pictures. One of a golden sunset; another of an electric blue sky, the sun obscured by dark clouds with bright edges. Something about Faith being the Light of the Soul was printed along the bottom. One showed a long-haired Jesus holding a child on his lap, a dove fluttering top right and red roses in the foreground. Blood red. Sickened, Stella had sat back on the floor, her back to the toilet. Unlike the jacket, she had no doubt these belonged to the Barlows. The objects, stacked beneath the bath – the panel was screwed tighter than the one upstairs – were what David Barlow had claimed was stolen in the burglary. Had literally claimed.

  She started to put back the panel, when she considered that David Barlow expected her to remove vents, panels, move furniture to get everywhere. He wanted a deep clean. He would know she had seen behind the panel and what she had found there. He would know she had said nothing. She was implicated; her silence complicity. He was right about the silver: the crosses were plated and worth little. The pictures were crude depictions of spiritual and religious moments; ‘creepy’, he had called them. Stella came across them in some clients’ homes; they were not her taste but she didn’t judge. She was not one for pictures at all. They gathered dust.

  She thought back to what Barlow had said about not being religious. He had wanted rid of them but couldn’t bring himself to throw them out. When his wife made him go to the police station to report the theft, he must have feared they would find them and charge him with wasting their time. He had talked about prison. When his wife died he had claimed for goods that were not stolen. This afternoon she had seen how annoyed he was that the company wouldn’t pay out.

  The pictures were arranged against the back wall and propped on the pipes. The crosses lay in order of size on the cement floor. The bath cavity was a shrine.

  Yet it didn’t add up. Barlow had been obliged to claim because the police had given him a crime number. When he asked her to deep clean he knew she would do under the bath. If he hadn’t known, he would have been alerted when she found the jacket. Stella got it. The burglars were interrupted. They had hidden the loot under here, intending to return. She must warn David.

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nbsp; Stella had arranged the crosses and pictures on David’s kitchen table. She was tempted to restore everything to their hooks in the lounge, but she had wiped away the dusty outlines so would have to guess their positions. David hadn’t liked them; he would probably only take them down again. She had tried to call him, but like Jack his phone went to voicemail. She had waited beyond the time of her shift – she would rather tell him in person, but by six he had not returned or responded to her messages. Stella needed to get to Terry’s, she was late. She wrote David a note and placed it next to a picture, her eye catching the words:

  …while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us…

  David would call when he read her message. ‘Call any time, I’m here.’ She had not said where ‘here’ was.

  In the harsh electric light of Terry’s immaculate kitchen, his white china gleamed. Stella washed his plate, knife and fork and slotted them on his draining rack. She had trusted David. Jackie would approve of her for taking a risk. Still no call. It was half past nine. Surely not too late for David to call. Odd type of burglars who in a rush made time to stow everything away neatly. She would be that kind of burglar herself, but that was not the point.

  Now distinctly uneasy – David couldn’t still be walking Stanley – she set the kettle to boil, popped a tea bag in a mug from the box of Brooke Bond Choicest Blend, noting there were five tea bags left. She would buy more. She had resolved to sell Terry’s house after she had exhausted his cupboards. Jackie had warned this wouldn’t happen if Stella kept renewing the contents.

  She had not told Jack about David because he would work out that she had been with him when he rang on Friday evening and had cut his call. She could explain that she couldn’t interrupt another date with David, but then Jack would realize it was the second date. So what? Not that it was a date. Stella gave up; most problems disappeared if you ignored them.

  The kettle boiled. She dunked the tea bag and stirred in the milk. The pint should last a week and then she would think about selling the house.