‘I’d forgotten about that.’ Stella didn’t say she had gone out of her way to find the willow tree and had whispered to Elizabeth Figg. He might think her odd. Instead: ‘You said you were off out.’
‘I wish I could postpone, since your friend’s let you down.’ He stroked the dog. ‘But I can’t.’ His thigh was centimetres from Stella’s knee. ‘Call it deep cleaning or tying up loose ends. ’ He rested his hand on the dog’s shoulder.
Stella braced herself for some personal stuff. It was a bit soon, she told herself. She could tell him about the blue folder. He had remembered Elizabeth Figg; she was sure he would understand.
David must be a little afraid, for, as Jack always did when they were in the streets where the men had been murdered, he pressed the mechanism on the handle and locked the van’s doors.
‘Next week.’ Stella reached out and touched his hand.
68
Saturday, 5 May 2012
‘What is your name?’
‘Myra Thornton.’
The paramedics – a man and a lady – were being nice. They lifted Daddy on to a stretcher. It would be touch and go, they warned. She could go with Daddy in the ambulance; Michael was too little. She ordered him to clean his teeth and go to bed.
All the way down the five flights of stairs, she said a prayer to the Angel. ‘Please don’t let Daddy die.’ She clutched his hand and the Angel’s jewels dug into her palm. Jade blesses whatever it touches.
Stella Darnell was pretending to be her friend. Mary had been going to invite her for tea. She never asked friends back in case they asked about the empty bedroom. She was proud of her new friend and it was all she could do not to tell Daddy. Not a new friend. She had no old friends. Daddy would forbid it so she didn’t. Stella had usurped her trust. Terry Darnell would be proud that Marian had worked out who was in the office when the printer was used. He would disown his daughter. After what she had done, Stella was not a friend.
I’m your friend.
You’re my brother. Anyway I don’t care about friends, you don’t miss what you’ve never had.
Yes, you do.
The cleaner was not meant to be her friend. She was her salvation. She had led her to David Henry Barlow of Aldensley Road. If she had not followed her from the cemetery, she would never have found him. Terry said good detection relied on legwork. She could have ignored Stella, laid her lilies at Michael’s grave and come to work. God had rewarded her. Stella Darnell had betrayed her. Cleanliness is next to godliness. That was a lie, she would tell Daddy.
I killed the Hampson widow, Daddy. I was sorting it out. Like you do.
You didn’t kill her, it was an accident.
I did.
You didn’t. She fell. It was an accident.
I didn’t call an ambulance. That was on purpose.
She banged her head and became dead. You didn’t do that.
Daddy didn’t know about David Henry Barlow and how clever she was.
I think you’re clever!
‘You don’t count.’ She said it out loud and a nurse passing her chair glanced at her. Myra Thornton smiled to show she was not mad.
Daddy will die and never know.
I know. Have some chocolate, I got it for you.
Stop playing with your food.
All she wanted was to do her job at the police station, come home, make tea and go to bed. She was never late. Every day. Job. Home. Tea. Bed.
Matthew Benson had been nasty when she said she couldn’t see him. It had shocked her. David Barlow had been polite. He promised he would be punctual.
I like him.
No you don’t, and close your mouth when you’re eating, I can see mashed-up food.
David Henry Barlow only agreed when she suggested he donate the money to charity. He had laughed when she called it compensation, as if the word was too big for her. That wasn’t nice. Daddy, don’t die now.
‘Myra Thornton?’ The woman who had asked her to wait while they treated Daddy was back.
‘Yes, doctor.’ She struggled to her feet.
‘You can see your father now.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s suffered a massive heart attack. You being there will comfort him.’
‘I have to work.’ She could not say that only one thing would bring comfort. He would want to hear that she had done what he asked.
‘Come in for a minute or two? Your father is seriously ill.’
The doctor would think her unfeeling. Myra might tell her that she would do anything for her daddy.
At the door to the side ward, she paused. ‘Is there a ladies’?’ She didn’t like saying ‘toilets’.
‘Up the corridor on the left. Can you find your way back here?’
Mary washed her hands like doctors did and kept washing until she had killed all the germs.
When she came out, the doctor had gone. She hurried to the lift. It was too late for Dukes Meadows. The cleaner had not called to see if she was all right.
Don’t cry. I bought you chocolate.
‘Brought not bought.’ Myra croaked, she blinked back scalding tears.
The streets of Hammersmith were smeared with blood from where she had cut Daddy’s hand and saved the man he thought was Michael. Except that couldn’t be true because he wouldn’t hurt Michael. He liked boys best. The doctor was wrong. It was God punishing her.
Don’t stand there. Get the dustpan and brush!
She dropped her satchel and, squatting on the floor, collected up guttering, downpipes, shattered chimney pieces, chunks of brick wall, slabs of pavements, the gables and sign posts, lawns and lamp-posts. ‘I’m helping you, Daddy.’ She was hot with the effort.
She ducked inside his special trapdoor.
‘Who were you talking to?’
Your brother.
‘Michael’s dead, Daddy.
It should have been you.
She did not tell the doctor that it was her fault about the man. She had saved her brother from Daddy. She had saved his life. She had. She had.
When she had done what she was told, the Angel would set her free.
Mary heard the big front door open. She had left it on the latch for the ambulance crew and forgotten to lock it. She trotted down the stairs to the landing and looked over the banister. She nearly cried out with joy when she saw her.
She’s come about me. Not you. She’s being a detective.
Michael was right. It was too late to make a friend. She continued down to the basement and walked out through the basement door, noticing as she went that the putty around the side window was loose and needed mending.
69
Saturday, 5 May 1912
Jack triggered a clangour of Big Ben chimes. He snatched his finger off the bell. No one came. The house was screened by a hydrangea bush; Jack bent down and peered through the letterbox. At the end of a passage was a table with a teapot.
He stepped away from the door and scoured the upstairs windows. All the curtains were shut. Stella had defended Barlow when Jack suggested he had something to hide. She didn’t go as far as saying it was none of his business. Stella was his business.
He had failed Amanda; he would not fail Stella. Her haphazard judgement of character sent her sleepwalking into life-threatening situations. She would trust anyone who presented her with a cleaning challenge. He called Stella and again got her voicemail. He left a message, speaking loudly, as if she was behind the curtains. She must hear. ‘Stell? Tell me you’re OK.’ The curtains did not move. ‘Love Jack.’ He was practically shouting. He rang off.
He couldn’t call the police on the basis of a gut feeling. Stella for one would never forgive him.
A door at the side of the house was ajar. Jack crept down the passage and found himself in one of the neatest gardens he had ever seen. No weeds, and regimented daffodils defined three borders. The lawn could serve as a bowling green.
He felt churning fear. The enforced symmetry and compartmentalize
d order was the work of a True Host. Jack spent nights searching out such people while Stella attracted them in the course of her work. Naturally she did; Hosts had high standards of hygiene.
He tried a sliding patio door into the kitchen. Locked. He nearly burst into tears. Two washed mugs stood on the draining board. Barlow had made Stella tea. Milky with one sugar. Jack caught his foot on something. A black bin bag spilled its contents on to the grass. He crouched down and stared, baffled. A picture of the Madonna and Child, several crucifixes. Signs. He got no satisfaction in being right.
The window panes above were blank and unheeding. Beyond them Jack visualized deeply cleaned rooms, no dirt, no stains; no proof of life. No proof. His imagination was at full pelt. What better way to dispose of incriminating evidence than get someone to do it for you? Then dispose of the cleaner.
He peered in through the glass of the sliding doors. On a wall beneath a clock was a picture. He cupped his hands around his face to block out reflection. It was a car. He made out a badge on the radiator. A Wolseley. The badge lit up when the engine was running. Stupid facts that Jack enjoying telling Stella. He racked his brains. When they were working on the Rokesmith case, Stella had explained the British vehicle registration system – facts her dad had told her. This car’s plate had the suffix ‘D’: 1966.
Nineteen sixty-six was the year Stella was born. On 6 May that year the Moors Murderers were tried and sentenced. On the same day Michael Thornton was killed in a hit and run at Young’s Corner. Forty-six years ago tomorrow.
A buzz in his pocket. At last Stella had texted. Following a lead. Will ring. Stella was not with Barlow. He exhaled deeply. Then he stiffened. Nothing in her text told him this. He didn’t need to see Barlow’s immaculate garden to know him. The man had a mind like his own; Jack knew him better than he knew himself. These were all signs that Barlow was capable of calmly executing revenge for the death of a small boy.
He rang Stella again. His heart was pounding louder than the rings. Answer!
‘Stella Darnell. Please leave a…’
Why didn’t she pick up? Surely Barlow wouldn’t kill Stella. She didn’t fit the victim profile. She hadn’t run over a child. But nor had Amanda. Stella was going to tell her police administrator friend to warn Joel Evans’s killer. Amanda had got in Barlow’s way and paid the price. Barlow would not spare Stella if she got in the way of his lifelong goal.
Jack strode up the street, past a delicatessen; a bicycle changed to a bollard was easy to steal. A sign on a lamp-post gave the number for crime prevention advice. He could ring it.
My friend is with a killer, he is…
Hopelessly he willed the message to yield her whereabouts. Stella had texted an hour ago; he might already be too late. He had no way to warn her about Barlow.
Yes he did.
Beside the text bubble was the symbol of a key. He clicked on it. A map appeared. A blue pulsing dot told him Stella’s location, or at least where she had been when she sent the message. Jack was puzzled.
Stella was at Mallingswood School.
‘I have the missing jigsaw piece.’
‘So do I, Amanda.’
The chawling rattle of a diesel engine coming from the Iffley Road end broke the early evening quiet. An orange light, like a beacon, was coming towards him.
Jack rushed out into the road.
70
Saturday, 5 May 1012
The headlights flashed in her rear mirror. David took the Hogarth flyover. Stella flicked a short burst with her hazards in response and then joined the Great West Road. Moments later she was in Weltje Road. The digital display rolled to 9.33. David had not told her where he was going. What meeting was he having on a Saturday night? Stella looked up at the dark building. Built of dull grey stone, it was austere and forbidding. No one could live there. Her good mood waned. Whom was David seeing? She berated herself for being distracted; for caring.
Her phone was registering a signal; there were no messages from Jack. It could take a while for data to download. She texted him suggesting they meet at Terry’s. She would go there now and have a shepherd’s pie. It seemed a very long time since she’d eaten Mrs Barlow’s cake.
Meanwhile, Marian was a priority. She had sounded definite about meeting at Dukes Meadows so it was strange that she had not come. Stella did not have her mobile number. She was about to drive off when she remembered Marian had called her. She looked at her phone. Caller unknown. She must have been calling from Hammersmith Police Station.
Stella wanted to call David but that was ridiculous; he had just left her and he was clearly in a hurry. She could still feel his cheeks against hers, smell his aftershave, the silky feel of his hair through her fingers. He was better looking than David Bowie. She brought herself back to Marian Williams. What would Terry do? He had looked out for her. He would want Stella to check she was all right. Stella dialled Marian’s direct line at the police station.
‘Cashman speaking.’
‘Martin! I was trying for Marian Williams. It’s Stella Darnell.’
‘This is her extension. I’m chasing up paperwork and doubtless messing up Marian’s system.’ He laughed. ‘As I’ve got you, can I say what a great job your guys are doing?’
‘It’s about Marian.’ Stella was now seriously worried. ‘She asked to meet me after work. I don’t normally.’ She was flustered. ‘This is confidential… about her husband.’
‘Her husband?’
‘He prevented her coming tonight.’ She should have rung as soon as Marian didn’t turn up.
‘Stella, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Marian’s not married.’
Marian Williams had never said she was married. It was Stella who had decided the bruise was inflicted by a husband. ‘A partner then.’
‘No idea if she’s seeing anyone. Have to say it’s unlikely, Marian’s big love is her job. She didn’t front up this evening because her father was blue-lighted into A and E a couple of hours ago. She left me a message and I’ve rung the hospital, but they said she’d had to go to work. On a Saturday! Typical. I’m sending her packing when she appears.’ He hesitated. ‘As you’re her friend, I’ll give you her details. She’ll appreciate that you care.’
Stella supposed that she did care.
She squeezed the address and telephone number into today’s entry in her diary, next to the address where the Thorntons had lived, which Lucille May had given her. The two addresses were the same. Mallingswood House, King Street, London W6.
Stunned, Stella looked at the gaunt mansion looming in the sodium darkness. Mallingswood House. She was outside it now.
71
Saturday, 5 May 2012
The iron gates were unlocked; the chain dangled from the lock. Jack couldn’t see a light in the attic window. He pushed through the gates and ran across the turning circle, heedless of the noise his shoes made on the gravel. The front door of the mansion was wide open; inside all was dark. This was terribly wrong.
He tripped on the marble step at the bottom of the staircase and fell on to one knee. He ignored the searing pain and raced up the stairs. The key had gone from the lintel. The flat door was ajar. He blundered in.
‘Stella!’ His throat tore. At the same time hands grappled with him, holding him. He raised his hand to punch his assailant, fleetingly thinking he had never punched anyone and that he didn’t want to.
‘Jack!’
The passage light came on.
‘Stella! You’re OK! I went to Barlow’s and when you weren’t there…’ He took her hands. Then he remembered. ‘Where is he?’ He looked beyond her down the passage. The door to the streets was open. It was never open.
‘How come you are here? Did you speak to Lucille May?’ Stella hadn’t answered his question.
‘Has he hurt you?’
‘Who?’
‘Barlow.’ Jack suddenly felt foolish. He could be wrong about him. No, he couldn’t.
‘Of course not.’ Stella
was walking towards the open door. Jack pushed past her, tripped on her umbrella and stumbled. He was blindly aware he must stop her going in. No one behind the door. The house was silent. Too silent. There were too many rooms; he couldn’t control them all.
‘I agreed to meet Marian Williams at Dukes Meadows. She didn’t come. This is where she lives.’ Stella chatted on, seemingly unaware of any threat.
‘We should get out of here.’ He took her arm, alert for the slightest sound.
‘…Martin said her father’s in hospital. She’s not there and she’s not here. The most extraordinary coincidence, Jack, could be one of your signs—.’ She shook off his arm. ‘You went to David’s house?’
Brown stains were smeared on the walls and reddish-brown footprints sketched out a mad dance on the floorboards. Jack lifted his foot. It was sticky. Spots of blood made a trail towards the crawl space. He had thought the old man was trying to kill him. Barlow had got to them both. So intent was Jack on escaping, he had not thought the old man and his daughter could be the victims.
‘Jack, are you listening?’
He didn’t recognize the room. The floorboards were littered with splinters of wood, shards of plaster and torn strips of cardboard. ‘He’s here somewhere.’
‘I know where David is. Will you leave it! Why were you at his house?’ Stella was by the model. Along its edges were brown smears of dried blood. ‘Marian’s father must have cut himself when he fell.’ She leant over it. ‘There’s a horse trough on that corner, isn’t that Britton Drive?’ She straightened. ‘And that’s Spelling Way.’ She faltered. ‘Is this how you knew?’
He saw it in her eyes. He had broken his promise to her and broken into this house. The A–Z woman wasn’t like other Hosts, but Stella wouldn’t see that. A broken promise was a betrayal.
He looked properly at the model. One section was untouched. He went over to it. Aldensley Road was as it had been earlier this evening. There was the hydrangea bush spilling out over a front garden wall and the delicatessen on the bend. There was a taxi turning into the street from Iffley Road. While most of the streets were strewn with rubble, like a city strafed by bombs, Aldensley Road had been spared the damage as if in the eye of the storm. The room tipped, something didn’t add up.
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