Beverly and Lucie returned with bacon sandwiches oozing with butter and ketchup. Bev distributed coffee, which was a great improvement on slippery elm.
‘Jackie said we’re to be one team. Jack and me won’t take no for an answer,’ Bev announced. ‘But we not asking so you can’t say no.’
‘Please stay.’ Stella touched Jack’s arm and, exhausted, she left it there.
‘Deal.’ Lucie patted the sofa for Bev to join her there.
‘What have you both got?’ Stella took a large bite of the bacon sandwich and instantly felt better.
‘Seventy-nine years ago, on the twelfth of December 1940, Maple Greenhill was found strangled in an empty house near the river in Hammersmith during the Blitz.’ Beverly might have been telling one of her dad’s bedtime stories: Stella relaxed. Looking at Jack, Bev swiped at her chin. Taking the hint Jack cleaned the wrong side. Stella leaned across and wiped off the ketchup with her bit of kitchen towel. Ketchup, not blood.
‘Northcote was first on the scene. He’d been called by an ARP officer who heard a woman shouting,’ Jack jumped in, his face suddenly red.
‘Or that’s what Northcote told the police when they were surprised that he’d got there so quickly.’ Bev arched her eyebrows. ‘What if Northcote wasn’t first on the scene but was there all along?’
Stella filled her spreadsheet as Jack and Beverly talked. Maple had lived in the same house on Corney Road as Jackie and Graham did now. From her elderly neighbour, Jackie discovered that George Cotton, the detective, was buried in the cemetery opposite her house. Maple’s little boy had been three when his mother was strangled. Stella squeezed Jack’s arm. That would have struck a chord; Jack was three when his mother was murdered.
‘The case was ruled “murder by person or persons unknown”,’ Jack concluded. ‘Except one thing. Jackie’s neighbour, Phyllis Jenkins, was adamant Maple wasn’t a sex-worker, and so was Cleo Greenhill at the garage. Vernon, who was Cleo’s grandfather and Maple’s brother, said that Maple claimed to be engaged. He said the police had found a cheap ring. Maple worked as a clerk for the Express Dairies, but the Greenhills believed it was because Maple was boxed off as a prostitute that the press lost interest. We saw the fuss when the Yorkshire Ripper murdered a student – sex-workers are disposable, even these days.’
‘Cleo told me that the family always thought there was a cover-up.’ Beverly said. The police knew who had killed Maple, but it didn’t suit for the truth to come out. Thanks to a software program from Geo-Space that estate agents use for virtual tours of properties, we can confirm this.’ Stella could hardly keep up as she added in dates of Julia Northcote’s supposed suicide and the facts gleaned from cuttings that Julia had hastily torn from the press and stuffed in a cardboard box.
‘March somehow gained access to the Northcotes’ London house and he must have known where Julia had hidden the box on – we think – the day her husband, Aleck Northcote, confessed. He faked her suicide a week later on New Year’s Eve. Perhaps she told him she was going to the papers, she would have known not to go to the police.’ Beverly balled up her kitchen towel. ‘How did March know about the box?
‘Perhaps he wasn’t there looking for the box, but to hide it again. It had been a safe place since 1940.’ Stella switched out of Excel and brought up the Ravenscourt Square house on Rightmove. Jack showed her the white circular marker which revealed March crouching in the top room.
‘But why hide it at all?’ Jack said.
‘If someone was on to him, perhaps he thought it was the last place anyone would look,’ Lucie said. ‘We haven’t talked about the charming Andrea. It’s a tedious stereotype, but March has a freshly jilted girlfriend who he effed over; Andrea had the means and the motive to send him to hell.’
‘We only have Andrea’s word for it she was his girlfriend,’ Stella said. ‘She obviously loved him.’
‘Did she love him?’ Lucie bit into a fig. ‘What if the tedious stereotype was cooked up for our benefit?’
‘She made no bones about being angry. If she had killed March, surely she’d have tried to put us off the scent?’ Stella looked up from the screen.
‘How did Roddy March know Julia Northcote had left a letter pointing the finger at her husband?’ Beverly asked. ‘Cleo said he’d been to Maple Motors – he was way ahead of us. I don’t buy the mugger angle, his podcast might be a heap of poo, but he appears to have been an effective investigator.’
‘Someone else thought so too.’ Lucie did a doom-laden voice.
‘We need to decipher March’s notebook,’ Lucie said. ‘It’s our bible.’
‘You’ve got his notebook?’ Jack and Beverly shouted at once.
‘No, it wasn’t on Roddy when I found him.’ Stella sent the spreadsheet to print and emailed it to Jackie, attaching photos of those suspects they’d managed to grab from the internet.
‘The killer knew March’s notes would incriminate them. With it in their possession, they believe themselves safe.’ Lucie caught the collated copies churning from the printer. No one spoke as, in gloomy silence, they digested the contents.
‘Four murders.’ Jack moved to the armchair and, elbows on knees, said, ‘It’s time to face the elephant in this room. Last night it could have been five murders. Whoever did for Roddy and the Clockmaker tried to kill Stella. They could try a second time.’
‘Last night was the second time.’ To a thunderstruck room, Stella described the evening on her way to the Death Café when a van had slowed on the lane. ‘If another car hadn’t appeared, I think that the van driver would have murdered me. At the time, I assumed they had engine trouble, but that’s a classic ploy to get an unwitting driver to stop. Now, I think they wanted to stop me linking up with March.’
‘So far we know one person who knew you and March might meet.’ Lucie flapped her copy of the grid. ‘The Grumpy Gardener.’
‘Andrea rides a bike,’ Stella said. ‘We need to find out if she owns a white van like the van in the lane.’
They were all startled by the doorbell. Refusing to be cossetted, Stella went to answer.
‘My God, Stella.’ Janet pointed at the steri stitches on Stella’s temple. ‘I came to see how you are and you’re worse than my worst fears. Are you OK?’
‘Fine now.’ Stella actually felt dizzy from getting up too fast.
‘I need a statement about last night.’
‘There’s people here, we’re…’ Stella’s dizziness increased.
She didn’t want Janet to see that Jack and Beverly were there as well as Lucie. Too late. Striding past Stella into the lounge, Janet said, ‘Fancy that, the gang’s all here.’
‘We’re doing your job.’ Lucie would never make a diplomat.
‘Give me the room, please.’ Hands on hips, her anorak collar up, Janet jerked a thumb.
‘I insist I’m present while you interview Ste—’ Lucie started.
‘Before you leave,’ Janet raised her voice, ‘Lucie, here’s a head start on my briefing. This morning, we raided a block of flats in Evesham and rounded up the gang who mugged and murdered March and Clive Burgess. They had the gear, an icon thingy from the abbey, religious stuff from the gift shop, enough purses and wallets to open a leather goods’ store. Small-time violent thugs. And, Stella, we linked them to you.’
‘Linked them how?’ Lucie looked less than grateful for the heads-up.
‘The youngest – a fifteen-year-old – had Stella’s rucksack. Denied the lot, bare-faced they were.’ Janet took in Stella. ‘You’ll get it back when Forensics are done.’
‘You know this is crap, don’t you?’ Lucie thundered. ‘A bunch of kids murder two men for pin money?’
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Beverly said as she and Jack hustled Lucie out.
It wouldn’t be the first time Lucie was charged with assaulting an officer of the law. However, now Stella agreed with Lucie about the muggings and the murders. As their voices merged with the street sounds below, her headache wor
sened.
Chapter Forty-Two
2019
Jackie
Geo-Space’s reception fitted Jackie’s vision of a state-of-the-art software company. A theme of orange followed through in rubber flooring, lampshades and the uncomfortable bucket chair in which she sat waiting – too long – for Zack Hunt, acting CEO. At least the coffee was good.
‘You plan to offer home scans for cleaning customers, way to go,’ a voice bellowed.
‘We thought…’ Good grief. Balding pate, excess bulk, pushing sixty. This confounded Jackie’s expectation of svelte, too-young-to-shave in Kenzo and Alexander McQueen. Jackie guessed his pinstripe siren suit, à la Winston Churchill, was the cool bit. At least Churchill had the advantage of being a war-time prime minister busy saving the nation from the Nazis. On Zack Hunt, the suit spelled sartorial disaster.
Hunt showed her into his ‘pod’ and instantly embarked on a presentation projected onto a wall behind her. ‘Geo-Space creates a digital doppelganger, for every kind of space…’ Jackie was swooped around buildings, homes, offices, gyms, art galleries, then Hunt introduced the team: a gallery of young men dressed to type in sneakers, jeans and T-shirts.
‘Who’s that?’ The woman was in her forties, with wavy blonde hair and what looked like the old National Health glasses but probably cost as much as a cheap car. Team mug-shots were meant to reassure customers that they’d get on with people, but Andrea Rogers’ filthy expression turned Jackie cold.
‘Her? She’s the boss-lady. Andrea Rogers started this business.’ Hunt’s neutral tone betrayed definite dislike.
‘I should meet Ms Rogers.’ Jackie got out her phone and scrolled to Stella’s email. She clicked on one of the attachments.
‘I’m as good as it gets, I’m afraid.’ Hunt rested his hands on the shelf of his stomach. ‘Andrea’s away on a long-term project.’
‘That is a shame.’ But for the siren suit, Jackie would have spared Hunt’s feelings. ‘I was told Andrea was top of her game.’
‘Your informer is misinformed.’ Hunt gave a hearty laugh. ‘Anyone can scan properties, the true skill is in the editing.’
‘Is that what you do?’
‘It was, but now we’re one man short – one lady – I’ve had to get down and dirty.’
‘Did you scan that gorgeous house in Ravenscourt Square? I loved it. The lighting, the dimensions, the… um… the general feel.’ Jackie essayed a vague gesture of rapture.
‘No. That house belongs to Andrea. She scanned it herself, didn’t trust any of us.’ Hunt gave a hollow laugh.
‘Is Andrea likely to pop into the office today?’ Jackie asked. ‘I do want to meet the Queen of Virtual Tours.’
‘She’s away, no idea where.’ Hunt was one disgruntled employee.
‘Zack, this has been helpful, your tours could augment our service to our upmarket clients, before and after shots, order restored.’ At last, the photographs Stella had sent through downloaded.
Dark hair instead of blonde, straight hair for curly. Same colour eyes. But for hair straighteners and a bottle of black dye, the grumpy woman seated at the desk which Zack had made his own was unmistakable.
Zack Hunt might not know where his boss was but, thanks to Stella’s photograph, Jackie did.
Chapter Forty-Three
2019
Jack
‘Perfect, you can keep watch on March’s girlfriend, she’s renting a room at Mrs Wren’s boarding house right opposite,’ Lucie said when Jack and Beverly explained where they were staying.
‘We’re facing the back,’ Beverly said.
‘It’s a short journey when you pay her a visit.’ Lucie was unfazed.
‘On what pretext? From what you say, Mrs Wren is a good gatekeeper,’ Jack said.
‘Pretext schmeetext, Mr Fox. For the man who hangs out with True Hosts, crashing Gladys’s hen-house will be a doddle.’ Lucie plunged her fork into a fearsome wedge of strawberry cheesecake. She’d requested three forks, but keeping the plate close, neither of them could reach.
‘It’s bedsits – every room will be occupied at night.’ Jack still felt a pressing sensation through his coat where Stella had rested her hand.
‘Not every room.’ Lucie held up a hand in front of her mouth as she chewed. ‘Mr March has vacated. Anyway, go in the day, when Andrea’s being a gardener.’
‘I’ll divert Gladys while you go up the stairs.’ Beverly would be itching for adventure.
‘You’ll be selling holy trinkets in the abbey’s gift shop.’ Lucie was wrapping up the remainder of the cheesecake in a napkin.
‘How is that possible?’
‘You’ll be answering that ad which is in the entrance to the abbey. Joy by Nature will snap you up as a blessed change from the gnarled grotesques who otherwise will be her option. Once you’re behind Joy’s counter, don’t let her out of your sight.’
Jack nearly asked who put Lucie in charge, but transported by the memory of Stella’s hand, knew that if Lucie commanded, he’d dance on a bed of nails.
‘What are you going to do?’ Bev’s intonation suggested she resented being bossed by Lucie. ‘I mean, shouldn’t we wait for Stella?’
‘Stella is cleaning at Cloisters House in half an hour,’ Lucie said.
‘She should not be working.’ Jack spilled his coffee.
‘Would you like to tell her that?’ Lucie beamed her sweetest smile. ‘Just when the turtle dove is letting you land in her nest…’
‘She’s not— Oh, hang on.’ Jack got a text. ‘Wow. Jackie went to Geo-Space. The people who made the virtual tour with Roddy March in the top room that we showed you?’
‘You only showed me this morning.’ Lucie had an air of infinite patience.
‘The CEO of Geo-Space is Andrea the gardener.’ Jack pushed his phone across for Lucie and Beverly to see.
‘Wrong hair,’ Lucie huffed.
‘No, it is.’ Beverly enlarged the picture. ‘See that mole there, on the line of her chin? Andrea has a mole in the same place.’
‘People can get moles removed,’ Lucie said.
‘Yes, but she hasn’t, that’s the point.’ Beverly was exasperated.
Lucie was a poor loser, so Jack trod carefully. ‘Jackie says this Andrea owns Northcote’s London house, the one in Ravenscourt Square where we caught March in the virtual tour. Jackie suggests that Andrea found Julia Northcote’s Swiss Roll box with her letter and the newspaper cuttings when she was living there.’ Jack was on the edge of his chair.
‘This is a game-changer,’ Beverly said. ‘Andrea finds the box, Roddy steals her idea for his podcast. Did he even know she was filming him?’
‘I’m sure he never noticed the camera in the middle of the room on a tripod.’ Lucie dabbed up crumbs on her plate. ‘In answer to your question about what I shall be doing, Bev-er-lee, I shall be taking cupcakes with dear Gladys.’
‘Where?’ Considering the cheesecake, Jack nearly asked how.
‘Lo, the wren has landed. Coo-ee, Gladys.’ Lucie waved one of her forks at a small woman, startling in a silver jacket and a pink and yellow scarf heading their way. Lucie hissed, ‘The boarding house is vacant, Jack. Embark on tasks now. Shoo.’
*
It was too easy to enter Mrs Wren’s house. Jack wondered if her tenants knew she kept a key under the back door mat.
Lucie had said no one would be there, but Jack was wary. Andrea Rogers might have called in sick. The size of the house suggested at least four rooms to rent: Andrea’s, March’s bedsit was sealed, and a ‘Vacancies’ sign in the front window implied one at least was empty, but the other? Jack disliked unknowns.
No sound. A stale smell of meals past, all fat-based.
Gladys Wren had entertained Stella and Lucie in her front parlour, a gloomy room at the front of the house. Through nylon curtains, Jack could see his hotel opposite. He sniffed mothballs and polish. The smell of Isabel Ramsay’s house, his neighbour when he was boy. Formidable to many, Isabel had
been infinitely better company than the hyper-critical pillar of disdain who would bid Jack call her Grandmama and mind his manners.
Jack was about to mount the stairs when a clanging jolted him out of his skin. A telephone in the hall was amplified by a speaker on the landing above. Jack shrank back down the hall passage as he heard thumping on the stairs. The receiver was picked up.
‘Wren House. Who is this?’ A whiny-sounding man answered. A lodger. Jack had been right to assume nothing.
‘Who? No one called Harmon lives here… I’m not divulging my name. Are you trying to sell me something?… You tell me your name… Thought not, slime-ball.’ The sound of the receiver being replaced on the cradle.
Jack dared not move. He knew from Stella and Lucie that the lodgers had the right to use Gladys Wren’s kitchen. What if he decided to make himself a cup of tea now that he was down there?
A draught cooled the passage. Peeping round the turn in the stairs, Jack saw a sliver of light. The front door opened then shut. Jack pattered up the corridor into the front parlour in time to see a man, suit jacket flapping, crossing the road. A letter in his hand suggested he wouldn’t be gone long, then, the man turning, Jack saw a shoulder bag strapped over his chest and gave himself up to half an hour.
When he crept back to the hall, Jack caught sight of the telephone and replayed the lodger’s side of the conversation. The caller asked for someone called Harmon. That was Jack’s surname. There was no such thing as coincidence.
Whoever had rung was sending him the message that they knew he was there. They knew his name. Stella had said the killer was at least one step ahead of them. She was right.
Nerves jangling, Jack knew he should leave, but couldn’t with his allotted task incomplete, and now he was alone. Or was he? Had the caller rung from a mobile phone in a room here in the house? Jack dialled 1471. ‘The caller has withheld their number.’ Typical for a salesperson, but Jack’s unease increased.
The Distant Dead Page 26