‘You don’t think this is murder?’
‘Not for me to say.’ Stella shrugged. ‘I can’t see who would have wanted to murder her and I can’t see anything missing, only broken.’
Through the kitchen window she noticed the door to the summerhouse hanging open. The catch needed mending. It was an item on her list of surprises for Mrs Ramsay.
‘You’d have a better idea than the daughter about what’s different. Do you mind if we pop upstairs and you cast your eye?’
Other than rumpled blankets – Mrs Ramsay had never taken to a duvet – Stella reported the bedroom unchanged. A twisted sheet trailing over the bedspread was proof only that Mrs Ramsay slept badly, tossing and turning, getting up and roaming the house or going to the toilet. The water glasses were in their places beside the bed; one with a lipstick stain on its rim was half empty. The SOCO team had not reached the top floor so Cashman should not have brought her here.
He trusted her.
Stella took care where she put her feet, and folded her arms to stop herself touching anything. This was for show; her fingerprints would be everywhere.
Here, where she spent many hours reading or lying in the dark with a migraine, Mrs Ramsay’s absence was more noticeable. Stella avoided magazines on the floor by Mrs Ramsay’s side of the bed and read the title of a book on the bedside cabinet. Emma. Mrs Ramsay shunned books with deaths in them and as a safeguard flicked to see who was still alive in the last chapter. She had said Jane Austen suited her perfectly.
Stella pictured Mrs Ramsay propped up against plump duck-down pillows, penning another list to Lizzie.
She walked around to Mark Ramsay’s side. His staged presence, including the empty water glass, had given her the creeps but she did not share this with the waiting detective. The glass was full and a paperback edition of Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens, with two dog-eared copies of The Lancet from June and May 1999, lay beside it. The books changed each time she came.
‘Did she have a partner?’ The detective was straining to keep irony out of the enquiry; his equal opportunity training a straw loosely clutched. Terry never had that trouble, to him all people were equal and no one mattered more than someone else, including his family.
‘She never got over her husband’s passing.’ There was something on the floor by the bed. Casually dropping her car keys Stella went as if to retrieve them.
It was squashed filter of a roll-up cigarette. Stella scooped it up with her keys.
‘Terry mentioned the old lady when he phoned, weird.’
Stella’s stomach flipped. Irrationally she fumed that Terry discussed her clients with anyone and she crossed the room to where two sash windows looked out on to the Square and tried to control her temper.
Two children straggled along a path in the park: the little boy wobbled on a bicycle pushed by an older girl. The bike jack-knifed and he tumbled on to the verge. Stella could hear his cries. The girl propped the bike against a bench and hauled the boy to his feet and the wailing subsided as she straightened him out.
‘Why did he mention Mrs Ramsay?’
‘She was a witness in a murder.’ Cashman was by the door. ‘I was a raw recruit in Bermondsey then. The Old Kent Road was another land to a West End boy!’ He was chatty, suddenly affecting a stronger London accent. ‘Your dad asked me to get hold of her statement. Anything for Tel, I said, no trouble.’
It was the statement that Stella had read last night. She made a mental note to look for the missing page.
‘Why did he want it?’ Mrs Ramsay had never mentioned Katherine Rokesmith. Nor had she mentioned Terry, although the name Darnell might have rung a bell.
Cashman continued: ‘Didn’t he tell you? He said he was going to ring you.’
‘No.’ Cashman had got that wrong. Terry only rang her on birthdays and Christmas.
‘This was about them next door, in the eighties.’ He gestured at the wall. ‘The old lady – she wasn’t old then – gave us our only solid sighting of the victim. She saw Kate Rokesmith setting off for the river.’ She could smell Cashman’s hair, his aftershave, his skin. If she shut her eyes it would be Terry.
‘Katherine Rokesmith?’ Her mouth was dry.
‘You got it. It’s down to your Mrs Ramsay that we got a time on the killing.’ He said ‘we’ although he was at a different station at the time. Like Terry, he spoke as if he and the police were one.
Mrs Ramsay must have watched children in the square, as Stella was now doing. The girl had taken the bike and was pedalling off, the boy, probably her brother, was unable to keep up. Mrs Ramsay would have tapped her fingers on the sill, mouthing encouragement or admonishment. Did she mistake them for her own? She had crowed to Stella that she had always known what her children were up to, the parties they attended, the forbidden late nights they imagined they got away with but had not because the fifth stair creaking gave them away.
She was always telling stories – why had she never mentioned Katherine Rokesmith?
Stella looked down. The woman police officer was still talking; from here she could see it was a man, probably a journalist. This was how stories leaked, hacks feigning idle chat with bored coppers.
It was Paul.
He glanced up and Stella stepped back, colliding against D. I. Cashman, who had come up behind her. She did not want him asking Paul questions and hurried out of the room to distract him. A door in Mrs Ramsay’s garden opened on to the Great West Road. Stella had a key but could not think of a reason to give Cashman for leaving that way. Paul would have seen her van; he had followed her.
He was turning into a stalker.
On the landing, she hesitated. Cashman went into the sitting room, jangling his keys like an estate agent showing round a client. There were six more stairs and on the fifth stair, as Mrs Ramsay said, the wood creaked when she put her weight on it. With the house busy, vacuum going, radio on, it would be easy to miss. At night it would be loud.
‘Let me know about the funeral. We’ll give him the send-off he deserves.’ Cashman puffed out his cheeks. The sitting room was crowded with SOCOs, so they walked down to the front door. Shaking hands he added: ‘I can’t get my head around it.’
‘Why was Terry ringing me?’ Stella was furious with herself for asking.
Already the detective’s mind was elsewhere; she knew those darting looks of distraction when Terry switched to bluff humour and fiddled with his watch strap.
‘To talk to his daughter? Hey, maybe he wanted a cleaner!’
Stella took the steps outside so fast that the police officer barely managed to lift the tape in time and was in her van before she remembered Paul. There was no sign of him. Trying to sound nonchalant, she called out: ‘What did that man want?’
‘Directions.’
‘I thought I knew him, that’s all.’ Stella shrugged. ‘Saying that, I meet a lot of people.’ She started the ignition. The officer was lying, but she couldn’t argue.
‘I’m sure you do,’ the WPC muttered.
Stella drove round to Rose Gardens North, determinedly avoiding looking at Terry’s, and uncurling her fingers examined the cigarette stub in her palm. One end was crushed as if extinguished against a hard surface. The tobacco had a distinctive smell – familiar, although she could not think why; she avoided smokers.
She tipped the butt into a plastic bag and poked it into a compartment in her rucksack. It was proof that Mrs Ramsay had started smoking again, although that didn’t matter now. Her phone rang.
‘Your teeth must have made an impression on that dentist,’ Jackie said gaily. ‘He wants a weekly clean of the flat above his surgery. The catch is, he wants us this afternoon and the rota’s full. We’re fresh out of staff.’
‘Did you tell him that?’
‘What do you take me for? I said I’d talk with you.’
She imagined Ivan Challoner in his immaculate surgery, music drifting from between books that had nothing to do with dentistry. The memory of the sw
eet mix of scents and fragrances eclipsed the sticky odour of Mrs Ramsay’s cigarette butt. Stella had never looked forward to a filling before.
The dental surgery would be a nice piece of work, high standards and with interesting objects to wipe down and buff up for an appreciative client. But she did not want to go there as Mr Challoner’s cleaner.
‘Shall I add him to the waiting list?’ Jackie repeated.
Stella adjusted the seat belt. She was meant to limit her cleaning sessions. First law of running a business: leave time to get more business. Dust and dirt wait for no one. Second law: learn to delegate. Being unable to see the bigger picture or take the long view had been Terry’s problem. Her mother said he saw only what was under his nose.
You’re just like Terry.
Stella made a snap decision: ‘Get hold of that man who came in earlier – Jack Harmon was his name – his form’s in thingy’s in-tray.’
‘Beverly. You don’t like the newbies going into the field without a home run. I’m sure I could persuade Wendy although it’s her day off.’
‘She’s seeing her dad in the home. Get Beverly to chase up references.’
‘I’ll do it myself.’
Crossing Chiswick roundabout on her way to a client in Sheen, a hearse with no coffin passed Stella, probably returning from Mortlake Crematorium. She absorbed the detective’s words about giving Terry a ‘send-off’. Funerals were a waste of money and Terry hated fuss; she should have said.
The police constable had not told Stella Darnell how she had boasted to the chatty neighbour that she was at Detective Superintendent Darnell’s leaving do or that his local was the Ram. Generally pissed off, she let the man know the daughter was in the house. He said he had to be somewhere but asked her to send Stella, as he called her, his condolences and he would see her later. She had been a tad indiscreet, but he had said he was a friend of the family.
When Stella Darnell had asked about him in a tone implying she had better keep her mouth shut, the officer decided not to relay his message. Later she resolved to make this good with a note to Stella dropped in D. Supt. Darnell’s letter box when she came off duty since she didn’t have her address.
When her shift ended, the WPC was exhausted from hours of standing in the cold and her goodwill, such as it was, having evaporated, she went straight home.
15
Thursday, 13 January 2011
The countdown began when Jack brought his train up to the buffers at Ealing Broadway. He had a break of seven minutes and thirty seconds before his last run to Barking, after which he would return to Earls Court and his journey would be over. He had agreed to do a day shift, despite it following so closely on his previous shift, because he never knew when he might have to ask a favour. Driving in the light was an experience he did not want too often. However, the coming night was his own and he celebrated this with hot milk from the coffee stand. Despite the odd choice of drink, the woman serving did not look at him throughout the transaction. She would not remember him: his driver’s uniform was an ideal form of anonymity.
The motor refused to respond; the train had become a clunky weight that would not do his bidding. He reported in over the transmitter, feeling the pricking at the back of his neck: the train breaking down was another sign. Swiftly he headed through the carriages, ushering passengers to the south platform to wait for the replacement train, avoiding conversation. He, as staff, would ride in the cab with the driver, a custom Jack disliked but had to respect or it drew attention. The incoming train would drop him to the depot; he was now a relief driver. This was not a relief – it meant he had no set number: no sign.
The next train pulled in punctually at 2.58 and 30 seconds. He checked the set number: 236, trying not to think too hard or his mind would go blank. He had the impulse to walk away to evade fate. But fate comes in many guises and there could be no escape if he did not know in which direction was ‘away’.
He knew the young driver; he had recently qualified and, once they were in the cab and the train moving, the man became rigid with tension, gripping the handle, skin taut over knuckles like lumps of gristle. He performed each motion like an automaton. If he carried on like this he would be exhausted, but at least it meant he did not attempt conversation. Two years ago Jack had been made a trainer, so he was used to the terror the novice drivers endured, terror he had not experienced; driving a train through dark tunnels with hundreds of people at his mercy came naturally to him. As soon as he had settled into the swivel seat, manoeuvred the levers, depressed buttons and powered the train into the tunnel, Jack was at home; the Underground was his ultimate Host.
Jack sat on the right-hand side of the cab, his shoulder bag at his feet, and took sips of the milk.
Despite the chill afternoon, he asked if he could have his door open. He did not like sharing a confined space with another human being and since he was not driving he could properly contemplate the cables, the gantries and glinting rails of the other tracks. It was against regulations for the doors to remain open while the train was in motion but Jack could endure the driver’s increased discomfort.
The train clattered up from Turnham Green station, where no one disembarked and no one alighted. In the distance Stamford Brook was like the stations Jack had saved up for with his pocket money: compact and transportable, with a tessellated roof canopy over each platform, a toy awaiting its part in the game.
He drank the last of the milk and at the same moment his phone vibrated. He didn’t recognize the number but did get the last three digits: 236.
The train’s set number.
Jack was so astonished that despite the driver he pressed the green button.
‘Hi there, this is Jackie speaking from Clean Slate – for a fresh start. It’s short notice, but one of our clients needs a cleaner at 4.30 this afternoon. We hoped you could do it.’
He knew about a fresh start. Jack turned to the open doorway to avoid the driver hearing: ‘Don’t you need references? Ms Darnell said something about a trial run in the office.’
‘We will follow them up in due course. We trust you. On paper you fit and this is an emergency. Call it the trial.’ ‘Jackie Speaking’ gave a tinkly laugh indicating she did not trust him.
A Piccadilly line train was speeding towards them from Ravenscourt Park; these trains to Heathrow, as frequent as the planes in the sky above, went like bullets on this section of track because after Hammersmith the stations were District line only.
Jack smiled: after all, he had not miscalculated Stella Darnell. He squashed the cup in his hand. The driver was slowing too soon; Stamford Brook was way ahead. He stopped himself from saying so; he was not a trainer now.
He was also right about the manager at Clean Slate: her confidence in him lasted until she got off the line. Jack had bought a tranche of telephone numbers off the internet and, applying a different ringtone to each, routed the numbers given on his references to his mobile. All he had to do was remember the referee meant to answer. When Clean Slate appeared on the LCD screen the ringtone was a man whose house Jack had for a while thought of as home. He was tempted to turn it off, but it would only mean calling back later.
‘Nick Jarvis?’ He kept his voice low although the driver, now in a flop sweat, was watching the station approaching as if it were a mortal enemy.
It was rather a shame the driver wasn’t listening, Jack was proud of how well he brought Nick Jarvis to life with a faithful rendition of the harassed accountant’s clipped speech. Time is money. Nick’s reference was to the point, and not effusive. Yes, Harmon had done a decent enough job, didn’t know he’d been given as referee, but yes, could recommend him.
Jack let the second call divert to answer machine. He did not want to risk Jackie picking up any similarity in his imitations; she struck him as sharp and the driver’s increasing hesitancy was beginning to get on his nerves.
Over the transmitter, a voice crackled that the next westbound District train was at West Kensington.
The controller reported that it would terminate at Richmond because they were suspending the Ealing Broadway service until Jack’s broken-down train could be shunted to the Acton depot. The eastbound District train and the westbound Piccadilly train would reach Stamford Brook together; he loved these moments, except this train was too slow: the driver, nervous of overshooting the platform, was applying the brake early.
Jack lifted his bag from the floor and ducked under its strap, adjusting it over his chest like a child’s satchel, fastener facing in; he could not risk it being snatched or rifled by pickpockets. Along with the private notes which no one must see, he could not bear to think of his possessions – his purse, his notebook, his pen – lost in the world, effectively orphaned; even the idea made him desolate.
The Piccadilly train was upon them, its ca-clunk-ca-clunk loud through the open door. They were crawling, which meant he could see in its windows: the passengers were shop dummies. Tourists bound for Heathrow, late commuters asleep or reading free newspapers were plugged into headphones; people noticed little. His driver jerked the brake and their train jolted to a halt three feet short of the platform’s end. A reportable offence.
‘Take it right up.’ Jack was calm. ‘Get your passengers off, we don’t want them pitching on to the line.’
The man worked his mouth as if in rapid and silent conversation. Jack covered the hand with his own and manipulated the stick, nursing the train the necessary inches until they were fully berthed.
‘I’m getting off here. You’ll be OK?’
The driver nodded grimly, fixing on the platform monitor by his open door.
Jack stepped past him. He would recommend him for more training; in the meantime he wouldn’t kill anyone.
On his way to Shepherd’s Bush Green to meet Jackie Makepeace, as Mike Thorpe of ABC Design and Print, Jack rang her and explained in a breathy, walking-down-the-street manner that he was on his way to a client, but could confirm that Jack was a great cleaner and all-round brilliant guy. He could follow up with a written testimony in the studio tomorrow. Jackie told Mike this was not necessary. Sold.
The Detective's Daughter Page 14