The Dog Walker

by Lesley Thomson

  ‘Clearing up?’ The woman peered down quizzically. She had guessed the motley collection belonged to him. She wasn’t wearing a coat although it was freezing. A dog lead and what looked like a police whistle were slung around her neck. She must have a dog. Jack had to hope it wasn’t as fierce as her.

  ‘Litter had been tossed over the gate. Horrible for the owner to clear up. I was asked…’ He wouldn’t push it; too much detail got you in trouble. ‘Ooh, is it your home?’ He gave his best smile.

  ‘No it is not! I couldn’t live there.’ Then she said in a softer tone, ‘Good of you to tidy up after people. I can’t bear clutter.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Jack was fervent although he collected clutter.

  ‘Why are you here?’ She wasn’t pacified. ‘Do you have a dog?’

  ‘No, the thing is…’ Jack wouldn’t start explaining about how much he loved Stanley. He rammed his hands into his coat pocket and felt his phone. ‘I’m at number one Thames Cottages’ – an address might reassure – ‘and it has no signal. I walked along a bit, but there’s no reception here either.’ He laughed as if this was of no consequence.

  ‘All that disruption to a house that’s more than adequate for a decent-sized family.’ Lifting her whistle the woman blew a piercing blast like the hoot Jack used to summon station staff trackside in an emergency on the District line. Imagining a slathering mastiff, he nearly cried out in relief when a fluffy dog no bigger than Stanley pattered out of the gloom. He wasn’t good on breeds of dog, but hazarded it was a Yorkshire terrier. The animal was wheezing. ‘Come here, Woof! I’m sorry, but I think it’s dreadful what you’ve both done. It is a form of vandalism and all in the cause of the dollar.’ The woman set off in the direction of the cottages.

  Guessing she was one of Natasha Latimer’s neighbours, Jack fell into step. ‘I’m only the live-in housekeeper.’ He liked his new title, he could be in Jane Eyre.

  ‘I see.’ The woman was like Miss Marple, kindly yet, Jack knew, as sharp as a pin. ‘Nothing “only” about that role. No wonder you were picking up litter. We do that.’

  ‘Are you a housekeeper too?’

  ‘I’m a declutterer.’ This was clearly a superior role. The woman stopped at the steps down to Thames Cottages and proffered a hand. ‘Daphne Merry.’

  Expecting a strong grip to go with her indomitable manner, Jack just avoided breaking her fingers when she lightly rested them in his. Her skin was papery and warm. ‘Jack Harmon. I’m here for a fortnight. I have to shoo off a gh— dust.’ Daphne Merry, like Stella, would have no truck with spirits. He warmed towards anyone who called a dog ‘Woof’.

  In the pool of lamplight Jack abandoned his detection technique of laying groundwork and gaining trust. If, despite Latimer’s denials, Honeysett was haunting Natasha Latimer’s house, he must learn about her. He must find out why. Daphne Merry was a woman who brooked no nonsense and he only had two weeks. ‘I hear a woman went missing here years ago.’

  ‘The towpath isn’t a place to go after dark. You meet all sorts,’ Daphne Merry said. ‘She went jogging by herself. She had a dog – he was nothing but a nuisance. No training, you see. She never cleared up his mess. She cut corners. Careless. Sadly, we pay for our actions.’ She did look sad.

  No doubt Daphne Merry meant he was ‘all sorts’ and she’d be right. ‘Do you think she’s dead?’

  ‘I don’t think about her. What do you think?’

  Jack was startled at having the tables turned. ‘These days it’s hard to disappear so comprehensively. But then…’ Despite Daphne Merry’s less than flattering comments about her, Merry mightn’t welcome him saying that he doubted Honeysett was alive.

  ‘Latimer bought that house to sell at a profit. She denies it, but it’s obvious. I say, if you’re going to do a thing, just do it. At least whoever moves in next can’t do more to the building. Perhaps they’ll leave us in peace.’

  ‘You seem to have an affinity with this place born of longevity.’ Jack was glad Stella wasn’t there to hear him. She’d definitely lump him in with Claudia.

  ‘I’ve lived here for over thirty years.’ In the poor lamplight the cottages looked what they once were: squat workers’ dwellings, prey to damp and draughts. ‘In 1987 we had journalists nosing about, dropping food cartons, hiding in hedges, banging on doors. You have no idea of the disruption such an event causes to law-abiding citizens.’

  Since he was being a housekeeper, not a detective, Jack didn’t say that actually he did have some idea.

  ‘What do you think happened to her?’ He needed Stella’s blunt insistence on keeping to the subject – he was no contest for Daphne Merry.

  ‘She may have fallen in the river. Carelessness is costly. But if you want my advice, Mr Harmon, you’ll stick to your cleaning, a most worthwhile occupation.’ She turned into the gate of number 3, Woof at her heels with obedience worthy of Stanley. Merry lived next door to where he’d heard a dog bark. Perhaps it had been Woof barking, Jack thought.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Merry.’ Jack wouldn’t call her Daphne. Yet.

  ‘Sleep well, Mr Harmon.’ She was brittle, as if doubting he would sleep at all.

  Lingering outside Latimer’s gate as if he could go in, Jack heard a key scratch in a lock and Merry’s door close. It seemed that Natasha Latimer was wrong about at least one neighbour spreading rumours about her house being haunted. Daphne Merry saw Latimer for what she was, a rich, ruthless young woman intent on getting richer. So if it wasn’t Merry, then who was it? Alone in the little street, Jack reflected again that he needed Stella.

  As he came down the steps from the towpath, Jack heard barking. Probably the dog he had just seen. It sounded like Stanley, reminding him that he hadn’t seen Stanley, or Stella, for a long time. Jack tended to see Stella if they were doing a cleaning job together, which was rare, or working on a detective case, which was rarer still. He’d enjoyed the agility classes with Stanley, but since he’d begun seeing more of Bella, couldn’t fit them in. He would see Stella soon.

  The barking had come from number 4 Thames Cottages. Through lace curtains he saw the blurred outline of two figures in the sitting room. Despite there being a ‘guard dog’, he opened the gate to get a closer look. Someone shut the curtains. He believed that the action was unconnected to him, but it was a sign to go. He’d taken enough risks tonight.

  As he passed number 5, the last cottage in the terrace, an upstairs light went out. It could be yet more synchronicity, but this time Jack felt sure that someone had extinguished the light to see without being seen. He would find out who lived there. To have any success with ridding the street of any haunting rumours – or real ghosts – he’d get to know the other residents. He’d enjoy getting acquainted with Daphne Merry.

  His phone buzzed. At the same moment St Anne’s Church on Kew Green struck half past mid­night. Bella. She’d ask where he was. Bella was a botanical illustrator and, if they weren’t seeing each other, she was often at her drawing board until dawn. He couldn’t say he’d been looking around the house he was going to live in for the next fortnight. He had yet to tell her about his assignment. His finger hovered over the answer button. Bella would want him to come over. Or – and this was more likely – she would want to join him. Over the last year, he had grown to like Bella being with him on his nocturnal journeys across London. Although recently she’d felt too tired to join him. Anyway, tonight after his visit to Latimer’s garden, he wanted to be by himself.

  *

  Footsteps. They came down the alley that led to Kew Green. Jack ran back up the steps to the towpath and, dipping into shad­ows, kept perfectly still. To become invisible, he cleared his mind and kept his gaze unfocused, his breath even. If you held your breath you had eventually to breathe deeply and give yourself away.

  A man lingered on the pavement outside Daphne Merry’s house. Something dangled from his hand. A dog lead. He had a dog. No amount of invisibility fooled a dog.

  The man unlatched Daphne Merr
y’s gate and walked slowly up to her door. Mr Merry? Jack rejigged the Miss Marple image. But then the man returned to the pavement and, with deliberate care, latched the gate. He vanished down the alley to Kew Green. Jack ran on tiptoe along the narrow walkway, noticing as he passed her house that Daphne Merry’s curtains were moving as if she had just closed them.

  Had he not been preoccupied with the pet cemetery and guilt about Bella, Jack might have noticed, as was his habit, that the number plate of the van parked on Kew Green was CS1. Seeing it, he would have grasped that the dog he had heard barking sounded like Stanley because he was Stanley and that it was Stella whom he had seen through the lace curtains. Regardless of having to explain what he was doing there, Jack would have gone back to find her. Instead he passed her plain white van without even seeing it.

  Dressed in black, his dark hair brushed back from strong aquiline features, on soundless rubber-soled shoes, Jack Harmon disappeared into the labyrinth of London streets, as insubstantial as a ghost.

  14

  Monday, 12 January 1987

  ‘Answer the policeman’s questions truthfully.’ Bette Lawson hovered behind her children, a hand on each of their shoulders. Megan and Garry Lawson sat like shop dummies at the kitchen table, staring at their empty tea plates.

  A smell of cigarette smoke and damp wool pervaded the kitchen. A plain-clothes detective sat opposite the children; a WPC stood by the bead curtain, perhaps unaware of the bead string draped over one shoulder.

  ‘When did you last see Helen?’ The police inspector, a thin-faced man with blotches on his cheeks and a military haircut, smiled reassuringly.

  ‘We’re supposed to call her Mrs Honeysett,’ Megan replied promptly.

  ‘Sssh!’ Garry jabbed her with his elbow. ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘It is important to be polite,’ Megan hissed. ‘Daphne says to take care with everything we do.’

  ‘Mrs Merry, you mean!’ Garry hissed.

  ‘What did I say just now?’ Bette Lawson squeezed their shoulders. ‘Just answer the policeman.’ She shot a look of apol­ogy to the officer, but he was smiling at Megan.

  ‘You are quite right, Megan.’ He nodded encouragingly. ‘Always take care.’ His mouth gave a twitch as if he had his own opinion. ‘Now, Garry, tell me when you last spoke to Mrs Honeysett?’

  ‘I saw her running along one morning on my way back from my paper round. She said, “Hello, Garry, you’re an early bird!”’ Garry mussed up his mullet hairstyle self-consciously.

  ‘What morning would that have been, Garry?’ The inspector readied his pad.

  ‘Last Tuesday.’

  ‘Do you deliver the papers every day, Garry?’

  ‘Yes. Then I clean out the budgerigars and feed them. Then I get ready for school and then I have breakfast and then—’

  ‘I’ve been helping with the budgies. Haven’t I, Gal?’ Megan interjected. Annoyance passed over her brother’s face, but he gave a grudging nod.

  ‘Good lad.’ The detective leant forward. ‘I bet you can tell one morning from another. What makes you say you saw Mrs Honeysett on Tuesday morning and not, say, Wednesday?’

  ‘On Wednesday I have football and have to pack my kit.’ Garry looked faintly impatient as if this was obvious.

  ‘Could you have seen Mrs Honeysett on Wednesday and then packed your kit?’ Honeysett’s husband had seen her on the morning of Thursday 8th, so the boy’s sighting on the Tuesday had no relevance, but it tested his credibility as a witness.

  ‘No.’ Garry pulled at his upper lip. ‘I didn’t see her on Wednesday.’ He didn’t say he knew this because, returning from his round, he had looked out for Helen Honeysett, hoping she would speak to him again, and had been disappointed not to see her.

  ‘I saw Mrs Honeysett last Monday – exactly a week ago – when I was walking Smudge with my dad. She was galloping along the towpath with Baxter at top speed. She stopped when she saw us. And…’ Megan clasped her hands at the memory. ‘…on Christmas Day Daddy rescued Baxter from drowning and he nearly drowned too! Mrs Honeysett was really pleased with him. Mr Honeysett told her off for forgetting him. Daddy makes her laugh.’

  ‘Told her off? What did he say, Megan?’ The officer put down his pad as if the answer would be of no consequence. He knew when to apply pressure.

  ‘She doesn’t eavesdrop, Chief Inspector Harper.’ Bette clutched at Megan with both hands.

  ‘Ouch.’ Megan winced. ‘I couldn’t help hearing because I was there. It’s only eavesdropping if you’re hiding.’

  ‘Still an inspector for my sins, Mrs Lawson!’ the officer said. ‘I’m sure Megan doesn’t listen to other people’s conversations, but she was present during the exchange between the Honeysetts so anything she heard could be very helpful.’ Bugger manners, he liked eavesdroppers. ‘Megan, take your time. Your dad hasn’t told us he rescued the Honeysetts’ dog. One to hide his light under the proverbial is he?’ He bared his teeth at Bette Lawson.

  Bette was tight-lipped; her husband hadn’t told her. Recently there were many things Steve hadn’t said. She snatched up the plates and, resisting washing them, laid them on the side and resumed her post behind her children.

  ‘Megan, why did Mr Honeysett tell his wife off?’ The officer emphasized Megan’s words. ‘Was she careless?’

  ‘I think he was cross she left Baxter by the river to drown and forgot all about him.’ Her palms clasping her face, Megan appeared to give the matter great thought. ‘My dad told Mr Honeysett that it could happen to anyone and then Mr Honeysett agreed, but I think he was still cross. He called her “a sieve”. My dad was happy afterwards.’ Megan beamed at the detective.

  ‘Why was he happy?’ In a ‘by-the-way’ tone.

  ‘Because of saving Baxter for Mrs Honeysett,’ Megan rattled on. ‘I like her. She always says nice things, doesn’t she, Gal?’ Garry didn’t respond. ‘She liked my new haircut and said our Labrador who’s called Smudge is a “sweetie”. She told my brother he was “one cool dude” which made him go bright red!’ She nudged Garry; he grimaced fiercely and tweaked at an imaginary moustache. ‘She’s going to buy two of his budgerigars.’

  ‘Have you seen Mr Honeysett get cross with Mrs Honeysett before, Megan?’

  ‘No. When I see her he’s usually not there. She said he goes away a lot for work. I think it makes her sad.’ Megan was winsome. ‘I had to go to school camp and I missed my dolls. Didn’t I, Gal?’

  Her brother, bright red, said nothing.

  ‘You can’t know she was sad, Megs.’ Bette shook her head at the inspector. ‘She’s got an imagination!’

  ‘Megan has been helpful. You both have. If you think of anything else, get your mum to call us.’ He nodded at Garry.

  *

  ‘You was talking shit, Megs.’ Garry rounded on Megan in the aviary. He was feeding the budgerigars. Megan sat on a stool feeding her chick. She was pleased to see she had got plumper. Holding her to her face she felt tiny wings whirr against her cheek.

  ‘Shit?’ She looked at her brother but, cleaning out the roosting boxes, he had his back to her.

  ‘I don’t care about Mrs Honeysett.’

  ‘You do.’ Megan popped a drop of milk from a pipette into the bird’s open beak. ‘You like her. So does Daddy. And so do I. Mrs Merry says she’s a “man’s woman”. What does she mean?’

  Garry didn’t know and as his sister expected him to know everything, ignored her question. ‘Dad likes Mum better.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Megan said peaceably. ‘We all do.’

  15

  Tuesday, 5 January 2016

  A week after the disappearance of 26-year-old Helen Honeysett on a foggy morning beside the Thames, police have no clue to what happened to her. Last week, just after 8 a.m., the time Helen left for a jog, police reconstructed her usual movements. Accompanied by Helen’s beloved spaniel, Baxter, a WPC dressed as the striking blonde in Nike running pants, yellow sweatshirt and white Adidas ‘Three Stri
pes’ gym shoes retraced Helen’s final journey along the Thames towpath, a little-used secluded track. Apart from dog walkers and joggers, tragic Helen would have been alone. The WPC – who resembled the missing girl – was trailed by press and TV snapping and filming as she ran to Chiswick Bridge and back. She paused by Mortlake Crematorium to do stretches as the promising estate agent used to do. The run took a little over forty minutes. But Helen Honeysett, a girl with a brilliant career beckoning, never made it home. Her dog was found by a neighbour on the towpath yards from the dream cottage – roses around the door – that newly-weds Honeysett and Honeysett had for only three weeks called home.

  ‘Helen’s super-fit; if she was attacked, she’d have defended herself,’ a distraught Adam Honeysett told us in an exclusive interview (page 4). The last person to see her alive when he left for work that morning, he said, ‘My wife should be celebrating her 27th birthday on 31 January. She was born on the 29th February and on non-leap years we choose her birthday.’ A large gift tied with pink ribbon waits for stunning Helen. Honeysett was questioned at Richmond Police Station for three days before being released.

  The disappearance of estate agent Suzy Lamplugh last summer alerted detectives to a possible serial killer. But despite grilling every client whom Helen has shown around properties since starting work at Harrold and Sons in Hammersmith last September, they have drawn a blank.

  Detective Inspector Ian Harper appealed for witnesses. ‘Helen was an eye-catching girl. If you saw her in the vicinity of the towpath on the morning of Thursday 8 January, please come forward…’

  Stella noted with only mild surprise that although the cutting was from the Richmond and Twickenham Times it was by Lucie May, now the Hammersmith-and-Fulham-based Chronicle’s chief reporter. May got everywhere. It was dated 22 January, a week after the reconstruction on the 15th and a fortnight after Helen Honeysett’s disappearance on Thursday the 8th. Lucie May had been on friendly terms with Terry – Stella didn’t dwell on how ‘friendly’ – and had helped her and Jack with previous cases. Stella was wary of her, but didn’t forget that Lucie had once saved her life; she was good in a crisis. She and Jack were good friends. Like Terry, Lucie was never off the clock. Stella guessed this story (May viewed everything as a story) with no conclusion must have frustrated the reporter.