The Dog Walker

by Lesley Thomson

  Stella cut to the chase. ‘Jane Drake wasn’t with Adam Honeysett the night Helen Honeysett went missing. He was on the Thames towpath at the same time as his wife.’

  Lucie was rootling in a bright red imitation-crocodile handbag with a fearsome gold clip, and gave no indication she had heard. She pulled out a packet of Marlboros, flicked up the lid and, dipping down, snapped up a cigarette between lipsticked lips.

  Since giving up smoking, Lucie had tried e-cigarettes, sticks of root liquorice and settled for chopped carrot from Marks & Spencer, which she munched compulsively. Stella didn’t comment on the return to real cigarettes; it wasn’t her business. ‘Helen Honeysett’s husband, Adam Honeysett—’

  ‘I know Adam Honeysett. Who says Jane Drake wasn’t with him?’

  ‘He begged her for an alibi so she claimed they were at her flat. She’s convinced he was with another woman. He insisted he wasn’t. I think he’s telling the truth because otherwise why ask Jane Drake to speak for him? Drake told me that Helen Honeysett upset everyone in Thames Cottages. Any one of them could have killed her. Lawson is not the only suspect.’

  ‘You’re wonderfully naïve, darling! So the Grieving Widower had another tart that night. I upset people all the time, so far no one’s taken a pop at me.’ The cigarette bobbed in Lucie’s mouth as she coldly enunciated the words. She held a lighter aloft as if waiting to set off a controlled explosion.

  A lesser mortal would have quailed, but Stella was unflap­pable. Facts were facts. ‘Jane Drake had a motive for killing Helen Honeysett: she’s obsessed with Adam Honeysett. She lives along the towpath, she stalks him and anyone he talks to. She stalked me. She has the pictures all over her walls, it’s weird, like a shri—’ Stella remembered Lucie’s wall and stopped. ‘Adam Honeysett was having an affair with Drake. It would have suited them both if Helen Honeysett was dead. It might have suited everyone living in Thames Cottages that she was dead. In fact the person it least suited was Steven Lawson. His life fell apart after she disappeared.’

  ‘Your dad thought it was Lawson.’ Lucie May drew long and hard on her cigarette, eyes narrowed.

  A car door slammed; high above the clouds an aeroplane rumbled; a horn beeped. At last Stella said, ‘They had Megan Lawson’s witness statement saying she saw her dad going after Helen to the towpath.’ Stella could do icy too. ‘Megan told them her dad liked Helen and the police stopped following other leads. She never told them she went to the towpath herself and overheard Honeysett saying “Oh it’s you!” to someone she assumed was her father. She never actually saw him. Megan told you this, didn’t she?’

  ‘Listen to you playing bad cop! Terry would be tossing in his grave.’ Lucie flicked the lighter at her cigarette; each time she got a flame the wind blew it out. ‘Go back to detective school! Our jails are packed with idiots who murdered without meaning to or were too stupid to cover their tracks. My esteemed brother-in-law’s in the second camp. If it weren’t for Megan, we’d never have known he’d left the house – Bette would have kept it zipped. He’d have got away with it. My sister hasn’t fessed up about his diary. She was happy to take his life insurance.’ Lucie May got a light, cupping her hands over the flame; she sucked on the cigarette until her cheeks seemed to meet in the middle.

  ‘Whoever killed Helen Honeysett did cover their tracks. Some­one has successfully disposed of her body without a trace. They did it in a short space of time because there were several neighbours walking their dogs on the towpath that night. Drake saw Daphne Merry, Neville Rowlands and Sybil Lofthouse. Megan Lawson was there too.’ Stella decided against saying that Rowlands had gained entry into Natasha Latimer’s cottage. Lucie would snap up the story. It wasn’t Stella’s story to tell.

  ‘Do some first-base detection, Stella. Honeysett trusted Lawson, she’d have followed him anywhere. Stevie spun her a tale and, being a sweet young thing, she fell for it. My sister confirmed he was out of the house for twenty minutes. How long does it take for a dog to lift its leg? What was he doing? Where did he take her?’

  ‘Steven didn’t take the dog. As I understand it from my research, Lawson told the police he had gone bankrupt and went to the towpath to pluck up the courage to tell his wife. Bette Lawson – your sister – confirmed he did tell her when he got back.’

  ‘Research! Some of us get out on the streets. You think you can solve a case with a mop and a bucket from your armchair.’ Lucie scoffed. ‘Since when did you pay attention to the wife of a suspect? Didn’t Terry tell you about the “lesser confession”?’

  A gust blew Lucie May’s smoke into Stella’s eyes, making them sting. Some might have feigned understanding. Not Stella. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When you’ve done something terrible, it’s bound to show in your behaviour or your expression. So the trick is to tell the truth. Confess to something bad, but not too bad. Convince your loved ones – or the police – that you’re innocent of the greater crime. So Stevie comes back, cries like a big baby and tells my long-suffering sis he’s all washed up. He leaves out the bit about strangling a gorgeous young blonde and dumping her in the Thames.’ Lucie took a final drag on her cigarette and ground out the stub under the pointed toe of her boot. Getting out the packet she lit another Marlboro. She flung the box into her handbag and shut the catch with a punctuating click.

  ‘Maybe that’s because he didn’t strangle her. This new information widens the net of suspects to at least six.’ Now wasn’t the time to remind Lucie that Terry had also said it was important to keep an open mind. Nor would she say that Bette and Garry Lawson were also on her spreadsheet. Or that her mum had said Terry hadn’t thought Lawson guilty. It would be a red rag to Lucie’s bull.

  ‘A net of suspects? What is this, a butterfly hunt? Who are your suspects? A silly young girl – now a dried-up witch – who flip-flops between truth and lies to snare Adam Honeysett. Two old women who couldn’t drown a mouse between them. My sister. Now there I grant you have a point. She could be done for joint enterprise or at least as accessory after the fact. You’ve got the Grieving Husband who – in his infinite wisdom – hired you and Jackanory to solve a mystery that’s already solved. The poor sod is forking out for a cleaner and a train driver to bumble about in deerstalkers spotting bird seed.’ She gestured at the sky with her cigarette. ‘I tell you, Agent Soapsuds, every day I thank whoever’s up there that, unlike the Honeysett girl, my little sister is unharmed. It could easily have been her that monster got. What was the favour?’ She eyed Stella through a curl of smoke.

  ‘Can you tell me who the man is in this photograph?’ Stella slipped one of the two prints from the Honeysetts’ Christmas party out of her jacket pocket.

  ‘It’s the plumber!’ Lucie rolled her eyes with exasperation.

  Stella was patient. ‘The man behind Lawson.’

  ‘Oh, him. That’s Nev. He couldn’t swat a fly. Leave him alone! You’re scratching around in barrel scrapings! He’s a lonely old man who got kicked out of his home by a febrile young snappery-whipper scenting a quick million. At least he got to bite back!’ Lucie cackled.

  ‘You know that Rowlands was going into Latimer’s house?’ Jackie said Lucie knew everything. Stella felt suddenly very tired.

  ‘Who am I and have I done? I put that on her screensaver. Genius, don’t you think! You and Jacko moved in and spoilt the fun.’

  ‘That’s illegal,’ Stella managed.

  ‘Top marks! Hey Stella Artois, it’s dirty down here in the real world!’ Lucie regarded her cigarette. ‘If you go running to your pet policeman, I’ll deny everything! And that Martin Cashback knows better than to clip my wings.’

  ‘Rowlands was thirty-six in 1987. He walked his mother’s dog on the towpath that night.’ Stella recited the facts.

  ‘When I first met him, poor Nev was distraught. His mama died two days after Honeysett disappeared. You’re a washerwoman clutching at clothes pegs.’ Lucie was full of regret. ‘I had high hopes of you, Stella Darnell.’ She opened her
handbag but then, perhaps thinking better of smoking a third cigarette, shut it and shrugged the strap on to her shoulder. ‘Priceless! The poor bloke loses his home to that gold-digger and you try to pin a murder on him! Stop paddling in the shallows, Mrs Mop.’

  Stella remembered the article Jack said he’d found in Adam Honeysett’s file. The article she had searched for without success. ‘What about Brian Judd? He had an alibi, but—’

  ‘The man was a recluse, he only went out to walk his dog.’ Lucie May hesitated as if taking in the implication of what she’d said.

  Stella heard her phone ring. With a gesture of apology she answered it. ‘Stella Darnell.’

  ‘Stella, is that you?’ The question her mum always asked when she called her mobile.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ Stella’s eyes watered as a bluff of smoke enveloped her.

  ‘Stella, it’s Mum. Don’t forget Stanley has school tonight.’

  ‘School?’ Stella pinched the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Agility training. It’s moved to Tuesday this week, remember? Stanley mustn’t miss it, he’s doing so well. He was starting to work away from me and pay close attention to hand signals. Don’t be late!’

  Stella had forgotten about Stanley’s class. She dropped the phone into her pocket. ‘Sorry, that was my…’

  A coil of blue-grey smoke drifted skywards. The car park was empty.

  55

  Tuesday, 12 January 2016

  ‘…now bend that knee, no, the other one, to a right angle. That’s it.’

  ‘The body needs to be on the side so if they throw up they don’t choke,’ Beverly said. Someone was hurt. Stella threw open the door and rushed into the office.

  ‘Yes, do that now. Gently roll her—’

  ‘I have to pull on the knee,’ Beverly said.

  Stella dropped her rucksack. Stanley flew across the office, jerking to a stop as he reached the end of his lead.

  Jackie lay on the carpet by the photocopier. Beverly crouched beside her. She was easing Jackie on to her side. A woman in a polo shirt and jeans stood over them, hands on hips.

  ‘Jackie!’ Stella shouted. ‘Call an ambulance!’ She grabbed the phone off Beverly’s desk and stabbed at the keys. The handset was snatched out of her hand.

  ‘She’s fine.’ It was Bette Lawson.

  ‘I’ve got Jackie in the recovery position. I learnt it on the first-aid course.’ Beverly was chatty as she positioned Jackie’s arm under her head. ‘Make sure the bottom arm prevents her rolling right over on to the face and open her airway.’ She snapped Jackie’s head back and pushed up her chin.

  ‘Ow!’ Jackie protested.

  ‘Do it gently.’ Bette Lawson replaced the phone in the holder. ‘Keep her like that. Stay down there with her until the paramedics arrive, in case she vomits or fits.’

  Stanley was frantically licking Jackie’s face. She struggled to her feet and lifted him into her arms. ‘Stanley could revive the dead, couldn’t you, poppet!’

  ‘That’s CPR. I was doing the recovery position. But I can do CPR. Shall I show—’

  ‘Not now, thanks, Bev. Though we’re all a lot safer now you’re the first aider extraordinaire.’ Shifting Stanley further on to her shoulder, Jackie turned to Bette Lawson. ‘Thanks for your super­vision. That tea’ll be cold. I’ll get you another one.’

  ‘No, you’re all right.’ Bette Lawson reached for a Clean Slate branded mug on Jackie’s desk and drank from it.

  ‘Stella, Mrs Lawson would like to talk with you about the Honeysett case.’ Jackie was giving Stella her I’m-here-if-it-all-goes-wrong smile.

  ‘Come through.’ Stella handed Stanley’s lead to Beverly and went into her office.

  ‘Adam told me you’re investigating Helen’s murder.’ Bette Lawson placed a file box down on Stella’s desk.

  Bette wore a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. Stella knew that Lucie disguised her short sight with contact lenses. She laid a folded blue coat over the back of her chair. Stella noted that the energy Bette had displayed while helping Beverly had gone. Lawson had a weary demeanour, as if crossing the room was an effort.

  ‘You’ll have read lies about Steve, most of them told by my sister. After Steve died I talked to everyone in our street, to as many of his clients as would speak to me, to his suppliers and his mates from Sunday football. I wrote up an account of all my conversations. Steve’s not here to talk for himself, but if you read that, you’ll find out what sort of man he really was. My daughter told me you’re friendly with Lucie. I’m depending on the fact that your dad was a police detective, so you’ll have inherited standards of good policing. Beverly’s just told me you’re a very good cleaner.’

  Stella gestured for Bette Lawson to sit down. The Honeysett papers were at home. A detective could encounter a suspect or a witness at any time. She felt unprepared.

  ‘Have facts at your fingertips: crime doesn’t work to a schedule.’

  She and Jack had been dubious that Bette Lawson would talk to them, yet now she had sought Stella out. Stella pulled a Clean Slate pad across the desk and wrote today’s date on the top page.

  ‘Steve wasn’t having an affair with Helen. He was a one-woman man. He used to say that when he met me it was love at first sight. I never doubted him. Sure, he liked Helen – she was a nice woman, always seemed bright and cheerful. It’s my guess she knew Adam was seeing someone else, but she wasn’t a pushover, eventually she’d have made him fess up.’ Bette patted her grey bob; unlike her sister, she had submitted to her natural colour. ‘Lucie made Steve out to be a monster, but you have a read of this and you’ll see how his customers loved him. Most of his business was repeat or word of mouth. You run a company, so you know what that’s worth. Would the papers print that? Lucie didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Why was he declared bankrupt?’ Stella steeled herself; she had to ask hard questions.

  ‘Does the name Sarah Lawson mean anything to you?’ Stella shook her head. Bette Lawson leant over the desk. ‘Course not. Lucie wasn’t interested. I love my sister, but she’s stubborn, like our dad. Sarah was Steve’s younger sister; there were ten years between them. She was spoilt, used to being fussed over and adored. She started shoplifting when she was a kid. Never got caught. Once her dad found a transistor radio she’d nicked and Steve said it was his. He covered for her every time. He was loyal. I wished Lucie was like that, protective, caring, but she’s out for herself, always has been.’

  ‘Are you saying Sarah Lawson killed Helen Honeysett?’

  ‘There you go, jumping to conclusions.’ Bette looked briefly disappointed, but then appeared to rally. ‘I’m saying that Sarah cleaned Steve out.’

  ‘Cleaning out’ had one major meaning for Stella; a second association was ‘decluttering’. She must have looked confused because Bette said patiently, ‘I mean she emptied Steve’s business account.’

  ‘How could his sister get access to it?’ Stella wanted to believe Bette Lawson. She couldn’t recall a sister. Sarah Lawson wasn’t in her brother’s diary. She was cross with herself; Terry would have known the name of a suspect’s cat.

  ‘Sarah had been “borrowing” from their mum’s pensions, and she couldn’t meet the rent. Unknown to me Steve baled them out and told his sister to come to him in future. She nicked his cheque book, forged his signature and withdrew everything. That night, when the washing machine leaked, after he got back from the river, Steve told me what Sarah had done.’

  ‘If it wasn’t his fault, why did he kill himself?’ Stella thought wryly that this was a motive for Steven Lawson murdering the sister rather than Helen Honeysett.

  ‘Steve had been brought up to look out for Sarah. In their mum’s eyes she could do no wrong. Steve said it would break their hearts if he told the police. He swore me to secrecy. After he died, I told Lucie, but she said it was respecting his wishes not to print it. Really it was that she knew a man who was bankrupted supporting his sister didn’t fit the monster image.’

 
Who am I and what have I done?

  Stella couldn’t mention the diary. Bette Lawson was relying on the existence of the diary being secret. She was in denial.

  ‘You’ve seen his daily diary,’ Bette said.

  ‘I… er… Sorry?’ Was it a question or a statement? The cogs in Stella’s mind raced at top speed.

  ‘Lucie’s got it. Megan gave it to her. She loved her Aunty El. She sneaked it out of the house when she was little. I hadn’t the heart to tell her off. She will have thought she was doing the right thing.’

  ‘You know?’ Bette must also know Stella had the diary. She had come to get it.

  ‘She thinks I don’t know. Lucie never credited me with nous, she had to be the clever one.’

  ‘You never told Lucie? Or the police?’ Stella tried to sound neutral.

  ‘Megan’s suffered enough and what could the police do? Charge Lucie with theft. That wouldn’t help anyone. Besides she won’t print it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Stella wasn’t in control of this interview, such as it was.

  ‘It would put her in a bad light. A reporter who gets her niece to steal from her sister. Lucie’s stuck with it.’ Bette spoke without acrimony. ‘After he was arrested and released, Steve wrote down everything he did. Being released meant nothing. He became the guy burnt on the bonfire. People had to blame someone. He could never be alone; the police were ready to pin any crime going on to him. Anything he earned went to paying the debt. Not that he got much work after Helen disappeared. His customers heaped praise on him after he died, but no one booked him before. There was the niggle that he might be guilty, especially after Megan went to the police.’ She fiddled with the staple remover, snapping it open and shut the way Natasha Latimer’s sister Claudia had done. ‘That last morning he was ever so upset. I should have seen it.’ Red blotches appeared on her pale cheeks. ‘He told the dog – he always talked to Smudge when he had something difficult to say – he said that it’d be better in prison than living like that. At least there he couldn’t be done for anything he hadn’t done. I waited for him at the hospital and he never came. I was climbing the walls – with no mobiles then I couldn’t call him. I went home and he wasn’t there. Smudge was, though, so I knew he hadn’t gone to the towpath.’ She stopped abruptly and pressed a fist to her lips.