‘Easy to hide and ambush Helen Honeysett.’ Jack shone the torch. The grasses were tinted red. Irrationally this intensified his disquiet. ‘It’s still easy.’
‘OK, this is what we’ll do. You stay here; I’ll go on. After twenty seconds I’ll call out to you. Shout if you can hear me. I’ll walk for another twenty seconds and call again and so on.’
Jack stopped dead. ‘You are kidding!’
‘You can be the one walking if you like,’ Stella said peaceably.
‘No! Stella, we shouldn’t separate at all,’ Jack sputtered. ‘Helen Honeysett was murdered on this towpath. At night in the dark. As you said, it was January and after dark. Like now!’
‘She was out on her own. We’re together. If you don’t hear me on the count of twenty seconds, come as fast as you can. Plus I’ve got Stanley. Or would you like to keep him? He’ll hear me even if you don’t which is fine because most people down here would have had dogs.’
‘I will hear you!’ Jack shouldn’t mind, not least because he might have dreamt up the idea himself. Before he could protest Stella was off down the towpath.
‘Jack?’ Already she sounded some distance away.
‘Yes,’ he bellowed. He forced himself to stand still and wait. After what seemed longer than twenty seconds, he heard her call his name again. Fainter this time. He shouted back, ‘Yes I can hear you.’
‘Jack?’ Much fainter. He returned her call.
Jack counted to twenty, trying not to go too fast. Nothing. Another five seconds. Still nothing. ‘Stella!’ His throat hurt. Nothing.
How could he have been so stupid? He rushed forward, feet pounding on the shingled path.
She was there. Jack slowed to a walk. It wasn’t Stella. It was the dog walker with the head torch.
‘Are you all right?’ The man sounded unflurried. The man switched his torch to a dull red glow. It put his face in shadow. Jack could see the outline of a dog lead slung across his chest, it had the look of a military accessory. He held a bag of poo. Jack was always drawn to footwear; the man’s shoes were black and scuffed. Jack kept his own shoes polished.
‘Fine.’ Jack swallowed hard. Something was wrong. He tried to keep the edge from his tone: ‘Did you see my friend up along there?’
‘I didn’t I’m afraid.’ Too pleasant.
Too ordinary for the middle of the night. Jack felt a rush of panic and resisted grabbing the man and shaking him. There was a rustling. Stanley struggled out of thick brush on the bank and began snuffling around the man’s legs.
The man proffered the back of his hand – a man who knew about dogs – and Stanley gave an exploratory sniff. He murmured, ‘Hello, dog. Is he obedient?’
‘Mostly.’ Stella climbed up from the riverbank. Jack wanted to clasp her close. His relief was immense.
‘I must get on.’ The man swished his lead from around his neck and with a brief ‘Goodnight’ continued along the towpath towards the dilapidated house.
‘What the hell were you doing down there?’ Jack stormed at Stella.
‘I wanted to see if it was possible for a person to conceal themselves.’
‘You can tell that without looking.’
‘Only if a person goes by and doesn’t see you.’ Stella was reasonable. ‘That man didn’t see me. Nor did you.’
The lights of Chiswick Bridge twinkled. Across the Memorial Gardens, the grass frosted white, was the bulky shape of the Mortlake Crematorium.
‘I called after twenty seconds. You didn’t answer.’
‘That tells us that if Honeysett had shouted then anyone more than twenty seconds away wouldn’t have heard either.’ Apparently content, Stella continued on to Chiswick Bridge.
‘That dog walker should have come to help.’ Scouring the obscure gloom of the towpath, Jack couldn’t see the man or his dog.
‘I didn’t shout “help”, I was calling you. Dad said if you’re in trouble in a street shout “fire”; people are less nervous about responding to that than “help”. They don’t want to get attacked.’ Stella stopped under Chiswick Bridge. Her voice resonated around the cavernous arch as if in a cathedral. She stalked between the towering supports. ‘Odd that man was out now, don’t you think?’
‘Dog walkers come out at all hours. Look at us. Strange question about Stanley being obedient?’ he said.
‘Not really. It’s a key quality in a dog.’ Stella was looking up at the high swooping ceiling. ‘I said he was, but that’s not strictly true.’ Stella would hate to mislead.
The path gave way to an apron of gravel, bollards blocked it from the road beyond. Jack welcomed lights in houses a hundred metres away.
‘We’re trying to solve a murder. I didn’t like the look of him.’
‘He seemed OK.’ Stella’s voice echoed around the curving stone ceiling.
‘So would a murderer. He was too polite.’
‘You can’t be too polite. And he was nearly seventy.’ Stella was looking up at the bridge.
‘In 1987, he’d have been about forty,’ Jack said. ‘Anyway, how could you tell with his torch on, we couldn’t see his face.’
‘I thought he sounded seventy,’ Stella said obscurely.
‘Helen Honeysett’s killer could have attacked here, bundled her into a car parked up on the bridge. It’s double yellows, but it would only have taken a moment.’
‘I read that Megan Lawson, the plumber’s daughter at number two, heard her say “Oh, it’s you!” close to Thames Cottages,’ Stella said. ‘Let’s go.’ She set off back the way they had come.
Jack had walked without fear on the towpath alone several times, recently with Bella. Tonight the ancient path had an eerie, desolate aspect. Honeysett’s murder – assuming she was dead – was nearly three decades ago, but she could have vanished moments before. Their steps rang in the Kew Railway Bridge tunnel. SAR 29/2. The missing estate agent had chosen her birthday, but she had not chosen the date on which she would die.
*
‘It’s nice cake.’ Stella swallowed a bite of Daphne Merry’s cake. ‘Strange to knock on your door like that.’ She was looking at the upturned truck in the sandbox. She’d guess he had been playing there. One thing Jack loved about Stella was that she never judged him.
‘She was being neighbourly.’ Jack was about to tell Stella that Daphne Merry reminded him of his mother, but he hadn’t considered this until now and couldn’t explain it. At fifty-nine, if she had lived, his mother would be younger than Daphne Merry. Not that he knew how old Daphne Merry was.
They moved back to the red-lips sofa, the glass panels swishing open, and sat down. Stella balanced a plate on her lap, and rested her mug of tea on the ‘ice’ floor. Stanley settled, head on his paws, a steady gaze trained on the cake tin by Jack’s feet. Natasha Latimer’s commitment to minimalism meant there was no table and, as Daphne had observed, no clutter.
‘Merry might have wanted to check out the basement. When Latimer said no visitors, she probably meant Daphne Merry.’ Stella wasn’t reproving.
‘True. What with the cake, I felt I had to ask her in.’ Jack opened the lid of the tin and took another slice. ‘I suspect she’d have asked. She’s a “no-messing” sort of woman. Literally.’
‘You said everyone in this street was capable of murder. It doesn’t sound as if Daphne Merry cared much for Helen Honeysett.’ Stella finished her cake. ‘Does she rate as a suspect?’
‘Not liking Honeysett is a giant leap to murder.’ Jack sipped his hot milk. It was claggy. He wished he’d had tea. Thanks to Stella and Daphne Merry he was supplied with a lot of milk. ‘I suppose we should have her on the list. But I can’t see her lugging a body away from the towpath or overcoming Honeysett and pushing her in the Thames. I still don’t get it. Adam Honeysett saw her in bed that morning so why was Steven Lawson a suspect?’ He wished he’d asked Daphne Merry, but she would have balked at his curiosity. She was canny.
‘We’ll keep an open mind,’ Stella agreed. ‘I shouldn’t
have let Mum see the file.’ She laid her empty plate on the floor. Stanley yawned, got up and, stretching, meandered over. Not fooled by the apparent disinterest, Stella retrieved the plate and put it back on her lap.
‘We reveal what we most want to hide.’ Jack hoped as he said it that it wasn’t true. ‘At least you got a clue to what Terry thought about the case.’
‘He didn’t think it was Lawson. Adam Honeysett is the obvious suspect and I’m sure there was something he didn’t tell me.’
‘Let’s do some research.’ Jack was pleased that Stella’s open mind extended to ‘Adam’. Carrying his plate and mug, he went to the home-office box beside the sofa. Any movement intimating possible food, Stanley shadowed him. Patches of light pooled around their feet as they stepped on the floor. Putting the hot milk and plate on top of the box, Jack pulled on the handle and swung back the doors as Latimer had done.
‘There’s no phone, but there is internet connection.’ Happiest in London Underground tunnels and night-time subways, Jack had found himself daunted at being sequestered in a deep basement with no contact with the outside world.
‘I’m not sure we should use her computer,’ Stella cautioned.
‘Latimer didn’t say we couldn’t.’ Latimer’s task sheet stipulated he clean the ‘Home-Office Pod’ inside and out. The box resembled those used by magicians for sawing people in half.
Pulling his glasses out of his shirt pocket, Jack crammed them on and, sitting on the upright stool, typed ‘Helen Honeysett’ on the keyboard. Google returned pages of articles, blogs and websites devoted to her disappearance. Wikipedia gave the subject four headings. The first was Missing; Adam Honeysett and Steven Lawson were listed under Suspects. ‘Adam Honeysett was a suspect in his wife’s disappearance.’
Stella leant in. ‘He said he stopped being a suspect when they arrested Steven Lawson. I’m surprised the fact that he ever was a suspect is allowed to be included. Isn’t that defamation of character?’
‘It was a fact so it’s OK. Still, I’d bet Honeysett would like this to be expunged from the internet.’
‘He spoke as if he still is a suspect. He wasn’t charged and he’s still free,’ Stella remarked.
‘So are many murderers.’ Jack scrolled down to Similar cases. There were two, Suzy Lamplugh and the kidnapping of another estate agent called Stephanie Slater, but police had found no connection between the crimes. A man was jailed for the Slater abduction.
‘An estate agent has to be alone with strangers. Since the Honeysett and Lamplugh murders companies are wiser to the dangers,’ Jack read from the page.
‘It’s like cleaning. We have a rigorous drill for our staff.’ Stella sat on the pink chair that Jack had brought down from the kitchen. Stanley shot on to her lap and peered at the screen as if he could read.
‘Where in your drill does it say staff can go into the house of a potential murderer in the dead of night without telling anyone?’ Jack was acerbic.
Stella didn’t answer his question. ‘Helen Honeysett was jogging so what she did for a living may not be relevant.’
Jack clicked on Other missing persons; the list dated back to Spartacus in 71 BC. He returned to Suspects. ‘No mention of Neville Rowlands who rented this house.’
‘What’s this?’ Stella clicked on a link on the Chronicle website entitled The Secret Lover!
Adam Honeysett has a cast-iron alibi for the hours when Helen Honeysett disappeared from the lonely towpath at Kew, Detective Inspector Ian Harper told a packed press conference at Richmond Police Station today. Adam Honeysett confessed to police that he was with another woman! Jane Drake, 19, is retaking A levels at South Thames College in Wandsworth. She occupies a luxury pied-à-terre paid for by her doting dad. The penthouse is a few steps from her lover Honeysett’s Thames-side home. To protect his mistress, Honeysett lied. He couldn’t have seen his wife in bed on the Thursday morning. He wasn’t there!
Police ask anyone on or near the Thames towpath on the night of Wednesday 7 January to call with information…
Jack gave a whistle. ‘By the time Adam Honeysett realized Helen was gone, she’d been missing twenty-four hours. This is what he failed to tell you!’ He banged the desk, making the steel box ring. ‘He was having an affair. Forget defamation of character, Honeysett did a good job of that himself!’ He clicked back to Wikipedia.
‘It gives him a motive for killing her,’ Stella breathed. ‘It says Honeysett avoided a charge of wasting police time because he had been punished enough. I was obviously going to find this out, so why not tell me?’ She was stroking Stanley as if his life depended on it. ‘He called Helen Honeysett the love of his life.’
‘You can be in love with one person and in a relationship with another.’ Jack rolled up a flapping shirt cuff. Not that he was in a relationship with Bella. Stanley, overburdened by Stella’s attentions, made his way over to Jack.
Probably unwilling to discuss the ramifications and repercussions of love, a mystery she had yet to solve, Stella said, ‘Honeysett’s alibi put Lawson in the frame as the last person to see Helen Honeysett alive on the Wednesday night. It transferred the timing from the morning of Thursday the eighth of January to the evening of the seventh. The night Megan Lawson saw her father following Honeysett to the towpath. She implicated her own father.’
Jack read out another paragraph. ‘Presumption of Lawson’s guilt was cemented by his subsequent suicide. The father of two drowned himself in the Thames. His body was recovered downstream by Chelsea Bridge three days later.’
Stella dabbed at the screen, and swooshed the page down and read out ‘Helen Honeysett was declared dead in 2007. Why is Honeysett bringing it up now? There was no evidence to charge him and it looks as if Lawson was, and still is, the prime suspect. He said he wanted to move on. Move on where?’
‘Looks like he moved on even before Helen disappeared. If he’s the killer, he’s committed the perfect murder.’
Stanley tensed. He stared up at Jack, his pupils enlarged, eyes dark and unreadable; he was on alert. Jack looked behind him. On the River Wall, the fathomless water was motionless and dark. He shivered; the basement was a soulless place. He had once lived in a water tower, down by the river at Chiswick; he was disturbed to realize that he’d rather be high up than underground. Tunnels were his home.
It wasn’t often that Stella read his mind. ‘Will you be all right here? You know, on your own in this basement?’
‘Oh yes!’ Jack assured her.
‘Would you like Stanley? For company? His barking is a deterrent and dogs pick up sounds we don’t hear. He might flush out the squeaking Latimer mentioned.’
He was touched that, twice that night, Stella had offered him her pet. ‘No, you’re all right.’ Jack thumped his chest like Tarzan, and then felt faintly silly. ‘Ghosts don’t float about in sheets and clanking chains. They are subtle. My boarding school had once been owned by a man who died in the Tay Bridge disaster in the nineteenth century. Boys claimed to smell his cigar smoke in the library. The true signs were the tomes on engineering that he left on tables opened at specific pages.’
‘It could be an intruder.’ Stella dropped her voice as if they could be overheard. She would have noticed Stanley. ‘Regardless of the Honeysett case, I could pull you off this job.’
‘This place is like Fort Knox!’ Not quite. ‘You both get off.’
*
After Stella had gone, Jack went to the sandbox and righted the truck. The sand was dotted with paw marks; grains of sand trailed to the sofa. We all leave traces of ourselves, he thought. Helen Honeysett had not vanished without trace. Somewhere a grain of sand would lead to the truth.
There were rib patterns on the river. Flashes of grey on black, skeins of scum swirled. Something had passed along and left a wash, a late police patrol perhaps. He checked his watch. Midnight. He should have seen Stella to her van to be sure she was safe. Bad, thoughtless of him. She would have objected, but he could have insisted.
Too late to go after her; she would be long gone.
Soulless the basement might be, but Jack couldn’t slough off a sense he wasn’t alone. Natasha Latimer was as far from being spiritually in touch as it was possible to be, but that didn’t preclude her house from being haunted.
Since meeting Stella, his first line of defence had become cleaning. Jack went to the trolley she’d left for him and found a duster and a canister of beeswax polish. In the magician’s box, he lifted the mouse to polish Latimer’s desk. The monitor came to life. He dropped the canister. It rolled across the floor, a scrawling that faded to nothing as momentum died. Words floated across the screen, ghostly grey like the veil of scum on the Thames.
Who am I and what have I done?
27
Thursday, 7 January 2016
Jack would have been concerned for Stella’s safety had he known that instead of returning to her van on Kew Green, she was on the towpath with Stanley. On the narrow pavement outside the cottages the little dog had drawn her to the right towards the steps, wheezing and coughing as his collar constrained his windpipe. Jackie said he was always at others’ beck and call, it was fair to give him his way sometimes. Jack was close by if she got into trouble. Stella told herself that, at night, only dog walkers went to the river. She put from her mind that Helen Honeysett had gone to the towpath and never come back.
Stella was concerned by Adam Honeysett’s economy with the truth. He couldn’t claim to have forgotten he’d been with Jane Drake and not with his wife. Until his alibi Honeysett was the prime suspect. That his alibi was with another woman hardly discounted him from motive – indeed it gave him one. Except that it had discounted him.
She wouldn’t let Stanley off the lead in case he went to the ramshackle house by the river. He led her into deeper gloom at the edge of the bank. She glimpsed treacherous water below, the surface rippled with currents and counter-currents. She was a step away from death by drowning. Stella, calm in a crisis, rarely felt fear; she had the ideal temperament for someone at the helm of a growing business who had to make decisions. The downside was, as Jackie had warned, that Stella sometimes took decisions without weighing up dangers.
The Dog Walker Page 15