Liz would wait beside the bus stop on Kensington High Street where Stella alighted from the number 28 each morning and walk with her up to the school. She materialized by the gym block gate during lunch where Stella went to get away from questions about Terry and shared her sandwiches with Stella. Stella didn’t have to pretend interest in the photographs of the Hunter family cat that Liz took for a project on feline genetics. Liz never asked her about Terry’s case. Stella began to look out for her at the bus stop. She found a textbook on genetics in Hammersmith library and photocopied a paper on the domestic cat for Liz. When Liz was off school with a bug, Stella went round to see her. From then on she was a regular visitor. Stella thought it would be nice to have a brother who was good at maths. Liz had two such brothers.
After school, they went different ways. Stella started cleaning and Liz studied French at a northern university. Stella couldn’t have said why she didn’t reply to Liz’s letters. After a while they stopped coming.
At the end of the Blue Folder case and of whatever she had had with David, Jackie had urged Stella to find friends outside the business. If she wouldn’t join a book group or a knitting group, why not look up old friends? Stella said there were none. She had briefly thought of Liz Hunter, but doubted she would reply if she contacted her.
‘I want a cleaner. I went online to find a reputable firm and found an article about you solving that case of your dad’s that happened when we were at school.’ Aside from lines bracketing her mouth and one or two grey hairs in an auburn bob, Liz was the same. ‘Of course I rang Clean Slate!’ She stood aside. ‘Come in. Let’s find your friend and have a coffee!’
‘She’s not my friend.’ Glancing back at the van, Stella froze. Jack was standing beside it, his back to her. He had said he was driving today.
‘I know him,’ she exclaimed
‘Know who?’ Liz Hunter stepped out on to the pavement.
Jack had gone. In the distance Stella saw his tower, tall and menacing in the grey morning light.
‘No one.’ Stella went inside.
Stella was assailed by colours: green skirtings, yellow walls, a rug of red and orange stripes. A low table was crowded with vases of blues and greens. A nightmare to clean, but whatever the cost Stella would give Liz Hunter a large discount.
On a chair beside a door to a Juliet balcony sat Lulu Carr. Stella felt distinctly uncomfortable. Lulu was too calm. Legs crossed, her alabaster-pale complexion paler against the garish décor, she was smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt. She was up to something.
43
Saturday, 26 October 2013
Jack had one more chance to time the tunnel. It was his last shift on the Wimbledon line before he was back full-time on the Dead Late shift.
He placed his watch on the sill and, his hand steady, adjusted the lever to a speed of forty kilometres per hour. In the sun the tracks sparkled bright silver; up ahead was the West Hill tunnel. Jack cleared his mind. Stella would wonder why it mattered that he knew the length of the tunnel. He couldn’t explain that it would lead him to discover who had left a toy train on the station monitors. Although Jack believed in ghosts, he didn’t believe that a ghost had left it there. He could not tell Stella that the answer to the calculation about the tunnel would help him learn the identity of Glove Man and know who had caused Rick Frost to die under a train at Stamford Brook.
He braced himself. Second hand at the one-minute mark before ten: three, two, one! He plunged into darkness.
Bricks flowed up and over his cab, lit by the yellow of the train’s headlamps. Six seconds, eight, twelve. At exactly twenty-four seconds Jack brought the train out of the tunnel into blazing sunshine.
Time and speed. The two numbers, ‘forty’ and ‘twenty-four’ were stepping stones; he was closer to the truth.
The platform at East Putney was crowded with morning commuters. Jack could see a station attendant talking into her loudspeaker pack, announcing his train. He slid his eye over the waiting faces, registering every one. He clipped his watch back on and opened the train doors.
He consulted the driver’s monitor to the left of his cab and his good mood drained away. There was something there. He got off his stool. On the lower quadrant of the split screen he could see the attendant waving ‘all clear’ with her paddle.
The ‘something’ was a toy railway carriage. Jack whirled around and scoured the platform. It must have just been left or another driver would have seen it. The attendant would have seen it. She was now the only person on the platform. She did a shrugging motion: was he all right? Jack gave her a ‘thumbs up’ and got back into the cab. He shut the doors and eased the train forward. In his mind he trawled through the faces he had seen on the platform on the way in. One of them had been familiar but, as if in a dream, the image had faded.
You denied you knew me. Three times.
The sun shone through the windows. The cab was warm, but Jack felt cold.
Who could know that as a boy he had owned the same toys? He had been dismayed when his father replaced his steam engine with an inferior one of plastic. It pulled three carriages like the engine now on his window sill in the tower. Jack didn’t suppose his dead father had placed the toys on the monitors. Nor had— He could not bear even to think his name. A name that belonged to a past that was better buried.
But someone had put the engine there. Someone who knew about the engine he had had when he was little. The back of his neck tingled. The connecting door between the cab and the passengers was shut. Even so, Jack was convinced he was being watched.
Jack stopped on the balcony overlooking the District line platforms at Earl’s Court station and took the carriage from his bag. His carriages had been full of tiny figures, moulded in beige plastic. When his tunnel collapsed, the passengers were thrown from their seats and choked by mud. The tragedy wouldn’t have happened if he had been driving. Until now Jack had succeeded in blotting out that afternoon in the kitchen garden of his school when his train had crashed in the tunnel.
The toy carriage wasn’t empty. A man sat near the front. He was looking at him.
Jack shuddered as if the passenger could see into his mind. Pieces of a train set had been placed on top of the monitors. By a person who played with codes and signs. Someone with a mind like his own. Jack’s own mind was being monitored. He had to keep it shut. He knew how to do that. Shoving the carriage into his shoulder bag, he began his calculation. He didn’t need a notepad; his photographic mind held the numbers as if lit in neon.
Forty kilometres per hour was two-thirds of sixty kilometres per hour. Sixty kilometres per hour was one kilometre or one thousand metres per minute. Travelling at forty kilometres per hour he covered 666.66 metres (recurring) per minute. He had taken twenty-four seconds to go through the tunnel, 66.66 (recurring) metres every six seconds. Jack leant on the balustrade; below him a Wimbledon train arrived at the far westbound platform. Two drivers were swapping over. The new driver climbed into the cab; the other began to climb the central staircase.
There are four sixes in twenty-four. Jack multiplied 66 metres by four. A peace descended on him. The length of the West Hill tunnel was 266.66 (recurring) metres. He drew his coat around him as a dusty breeze swept out from the tunnel below. His mind was a vast plain on which images and ideas ranged far and wide. This hidden fact would lead him to more. This was being a detective.
Jack wouldn’t be back on the trains for a week. He had time.
Into his opened mind came a glove. A black leather glove was found on the body in his tower.
Black leather gloves were two a penny, but it was less common to have a crown motif on the cuff and a popper fastener as Lucie had described in her notes. The glove Stanley had in his mouth in the tower had a crown indented in the leather. Focused on the dog’s white teeth and mistrustful glare, Jack had seen the crown indentation by his upper incisor. Stella said the dog had stolen it from Lulu Carr’s house.
There was no such thing as a coinc
idence.
Jack turned on his phone. Stella would be at Nicola Barwick’s house. He hoped she was all right. He shouldn’t have let her go off with a suspect on her own. His thumbs flew over the keyboard: Ask Lulu C about the glove.
He continued along the footbridge towards the Exhibition Centre. The tunnel was 266.66 metres in length; the fact had opened his mind and given him the glove. One fact led to another.
There is madness in your method.
Jack pummelled at his forehead. The thought – although a fact – had come unbidden into his mind; it was not his own. He had the notion he was being watched and, turning around, heard someone speak:
‘It’s Jack Harmon, isn’t it?’
Jack looked at a stocky man with backcombed thinning hair. He had rheumy eyes as if in the grip of an allergy. He recognized the driver who had got off the Wimbledon train a few minutes ago, but he didn’t know him. Another face he couldn’t place.
‘Yes.’
‘Darryl Clark. We met at the— I was driving that train that—’
‘Of course!’ Jack saved him from finishing the sentence. Darryl Clark was the Piccadilly line driver who had the One Under at Stamford Brook. ‘I saw you get off a District line train just then.’
‘I got a transfer. I can’t face that track. Still the same line, but it’s not the same. You doing all right?’
‘Oh yes, but then I wasn’t driving the train.’ It occurred to Jack that he wasn’t doing all right. With all that had happened – the move to the tower, the toys on the monitor and Stella’s brother – he had been distracted from the actuality of the death on the track. Darryl Clark brought it back. Rick Frost’s expression: now he thought it was of fear and perhaps some vain effort to make Jack understand what he was trying to convey.
‘Have you got time for a quick drink?’ the man asked.
‘It’s a bit early for me.’ Jack wanted to see Stella.
‘Me too!’ The man gave a sudden laugh, a shout, the sound pushed with effort from the depths of his chest. ‘I meant a coffee.’
‘Yes of course.’
The two men returned along the footbridge to the staff canteen.
‘What was your set number?’ Jack asked conversationally as they descended the staircase
‘My set number?’ Clark looked at him.
‘For that train you just handed over.’ Jack picked up his pace. Clark was shorter than him, but he was walking fast.
‘Two six six.’
The length of the West Hill tunnel: 266.66 metres.
The signs were working.
44
Saturday, 26 October 2013
‘Please could I use your loo?’ Lulu Carr stood up when Liz Hunter returned with a tray of coffees.
‘By the kitchen, door on the left.’ Liz placed three white china mugs of coffee on the coffee table and pushed a plate of biscuits towards Stella. She sat in a chair matching Lulu’s on the other side of the balcony door. ‘Is your friend all right?’
‘She’s not my— She and Nicola Barwick have unfinished business.’ Stella accepted a biscuit and nibbled at it, reminded of Dale’s scones. The biscuits were not as nice. Aware of how odd Lulu’s behaviour must appear, she was tempted to tell Liz Hunter everything, but however annoying Lulu was, she wouldn’t betray her confidence.
‘It’s ridiculous that I can’t give her Nicola’s address. But she was adamant. I must tell no one!’ Liz Hunter handed her a cup of coffee. ‘I can pass on a message for her though.’
‘I’m not sure that will—’
‘But hey, it’s so good that you turned up in person! Fancy you not realizing it was me when they told you at the office. Have to say, I’ve often wondered about you. I’ve missed you, Stella.’
Liz Hunter had always said what she felt. Stella hadn’t missed her or she would have seen her. Stella thought that Jack would agree about it being more than a coincidence. Whatever it was, she felt distinctly uncomfortable. She would do Liz an estimate and leave. Lulu would have to make do with leaving her number for Nicola Barwick.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Although Liz hadn’t asked how she was. ‘What about you?’ Stella enquired in a spray of crumbs.
‘Life’s been in turmoil. I’m coming out of a divorce.’ Liz gave a laugh as if she had made a joke.
‘So you haven’t lived here long?’ Stella took another nibble of the biscuit and bit the side of her cheek. She washed down the biscuit with lukewarm coffee. Where was Lulu?
‘I came back from Paris when Dad died two years ago to be nearer Mum. My brothers are here, but they’re worse than useless! Max never visits and although Rob manages the odd afternoon, he flops on the sofa and watches telly with her. At least he doesn’t bring his washing any more. I was sorry to read about your dad – he was a kind man.’
Stella had never thought of Terry in those terms and was interested that Liz had noticed.
‘Sorted!’ Lulu Carr was in the doorway, beaming at them both. Stella would underplay a visit to the loo rather than treat it as an accomplishment.
‘Tuck in.’ Liz waved at the coffee and biscuits. Stella remembered that it was typical of Liz not to ask questions. Right from when she had rescued Stella from a cupboard in their infant school, Liz Hunter had taken any crisis or unusual situation in her stride.
‘Actually I must dash,’ Lulu said. ‘I’ve had a text from my brother. He needs me!’
She blew them both kisses and was gone before Stella could gather herself and go with her. With growing unease she excused herself and went to the toilet.
Stella stood in the little cloakroom and considered the low-slung toilet. There was tiny corner sink from which hung a diminutive towel. The cistern wasn’t filling, but the tank was small, it had probably already done so.
The towel was soft and dry. A bar of lavender soap was wedged behind a squat mixer tap. Stella picked it up. It was tacky, not wet. Running water over her hands, she worked the soap to a lather. It slipped from her fingers and shot into the basin. She captured it and put it back behind the tap, then rinsed and dried her hands. The soap was now flecked with suds, and the towel was damp. Lulu wouldn’t go to the toilet without washing her hands. Whatever she was doing while she was out of the room, she hadn’t been near the toilet.
Liz was in the kitchen, washing up the mugs. ‘Another coffee? I’m having one.’ She flicked the kettle switch.
‘Yes, thanks.’ Stella would do the estimate and allocate an operator for Liz. Wendy would be right for her. She settled into a chair at the end of a long wooden table that was large enough to sit ten.
A tall blue Smeg fridge matched eggshell-blue units. A set of shelves was stacked with assorted mugs and plates, many with chipped rims. A collection of glass Kilner jars was grouped together on the fridge. The vibration of the motor would shift them incrementally and eventually they would fall. Stella decided against pointing this out. The fridge door was papered with neat rows of notes, takeaway menus and cards for different trades clamped by large magnets in primary colours. Apart from the top one, they were arranged with five items per row; Stella liked this. During the estimate she would photograph their precise positions so that after cleaning they could be put back accurately. Her phone buzzed.
‘Where are you?’ Her mother’s first question whenever she phoned Stella’s mobile.
‘At a friend’s.’ She doubted that would remember Liz.
‘A friend?’ Her mother sounded disbelieving.
‘A client,’ Stella said to put Suzie off.
‘I won’t keep you. Dale and I are going to Richmond Park again, he’s taking me in his lovely hire car.
‘That’s nice.’ A hired car would be more comfortable than her cleaning van, although Dale had said he thought it was ‘cool’.
‘Stella, just to say, make sure you’re in tonight, he’s got a surprise for you. Seven fifteen. I’ve left Terry’s key with Jackie.’
‘I’m not sure I can—’ Suzie had gone. Her mum knew she didn�
�t like surprises. Stella considered phoning back, but thought better of it; she would seem ungrateful and after all it could do no harm for Dale to go to Terry’s house. Terry had been his dad too. Belatedly she wondered how Suzie knew Stella went there in the evening.
Liz interrupted this thought. ‘How’s your mum doing?
Stella had intended to say Suzie was fine, that working at Clean Slate got her out of the house. Instead she told Liz all about how Suzie still behaved as if Terry was alive and how she’d upped sticks and gone to Australia. That Stella had gone to the airport and her mother wasn’t there, that she was still in Sydney. Finally Stella told her about Dale Heffernan. How he looked just liked Terry and that her mum hadn’t complained about Terry being a ‘wrong turning’ since Dale had arrived. This bit hadn’t occurred to Stella until she told Liz. She described how Dale had taken her mum on shopping trips to the West End, to posh restaurants and cooked for her. Suzie seemed to be having the time of her life. This too hadn’t occurred to Stella before. Drawing breath, Stella realised she hadn’t asked her mum where she was meant to be ‘in tonight’. She spent her evenings at Terry’s, but Suzie didn’t know that. Liz was talking.
‘Sounds like he’s bonding with his biological mum – with you both – it doesn’t always work out that way.’ Liz was ripping up basil leaves and scattering them over fanned slices of avocado, tomato and mozzarella on a plate. She presented food on the plate with care like Dale did.
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