The Playground Murders

by Lesley Thomson

  Jack trod on a crack in the paving. His gods were angry. He’d planned to lie to Stella. Hoping that his gods would allow him to trade right for wrong, Jack resolved to play it Stella’s way for now.

  *

  Stella had no idea how long she’d been sitting at her desk staring at the attic hatch. Stanley, expecting eventual action, sat pert by the shredder, a proprietary paw on his faithful Mr Ratty.

  If Terry had received letters from Penny Philips, they’d be in the attic where he’d stored files of unsolved cases. Since his death, Stella rarely ventured up there. A devotee of deep cleaning – behind bath panels and skirting boards – she avoided the one place that, if her dad’s ghost did haunt his house, was where he’d be. There were no letters. She’d told Jack that it was against the law for an SIO to write to a murderer. Terry never broke the law.

  When they returned from Winchcombe, Stella had dropped Jack at Earls Court station to pick up the District line train he’d be driving. They’d had no chance to discuss the case in the van because, in preparation for his dead late shift, Jack had slept all the way.

  The afternoon’s visit to the antiques shop had provided clarification. Ian and Carol had not guessed that their boss was having an affair with Rachel. Carol expressed frustration that Rachel had lied because ‘her secret would have been safe with me’. Carol and Ian were engaged and keen to tell Jack and Stella their wedding plans. They were sorry that Rachel had died such a horrible death. They’d been going to ask her to make their cake, ‘she was so good we kept saying she should be on Bake Off.’ Their boss being in prison meant that the shop was closing. Christopher had been a good employer.

  When Jack had asked if they thought him guilty they’d fallen over themselves to say yes they were sure that he was.

  ‘Flipping odd,’ Jack remarked as they drove out of the town. ‘Your staff think you’re great and I’m sure they’d think you innocent if you were done for murder. Even if you were caught holding a dripping knife.’

  ‘The evidence appears overwhelming, why should they doubt it?’ Stella supposed that only Jack would think her innocent. Terry had said to follow the evidence. Emotions clouded facts.

  ‘They don’t gain from his death. They’re going to be out of work just when they have a wedding to pay for,’ Jack had said.

  In her study, Stella crossed off Ian and Carol’s names in her spreadsheet. Rachel Cater had been liked. She cooked cakes for people. She had had a mother who loved her. There were no enemies. This was a concept that Stella found hard to grasp. Apart from politicians, who did have enemies? What was an enemy?

  The attic was above what had been Stella’s bedroom until she was seven and moved out with her mum. Returning for access weekends, the bedroom had never felt like hers. In panic lest the court found him an unsuitable father (chats about cadaver dogs, corpse decomposition and how to arrest a miscreant), Terry painted the room pink and overpopulated it with dolls. He filled the bookcase with stories about girls on horses in boarding schools that only baffled the girl who’d wanted to be a detective and solve murders.

  When he retired from the force, Terry boxed up the dolls and books and replaced them with copies of The Job, the Met’s in-house magazine, police manuals and well-thumbed volumes of the ‘Police and Criminal Evidence Act’. At Lucie May’s instigation, he got a computer. The bookcase was crammed with true crime and biographies of renowned detectives and pathologists. Stella’s poster of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever was swapped for a street map of London stuck with what her mum (Stella didn’t know when Suzie had gone there) called ‘Murder Pins’. When she inherited Terry’s house, Stella made no changes (the pins had gone before Terry died).

  After he arrested Hindle, it was weeks before Stella saw Terry. Usually critical of him, Suzie had been nice. She’d explained to Stella that her dad was ill. He’d see Stella as soon as he was better. Stella took to waiting in the entrance of Hammersmith Library after school to watch Terry entering and leaving the police station across the road. He was sick, why was he working? Gradually she saw that her mum was right, the force was her dad’s family. Terry had no time for her.

  It was good that Jack wasn’t there. If she found any letters – she would not – she wanted to read them alone.

  Stella stood up. Stanley grabbed Mr Ratty. Afraid of little, as she eased down the ladder, Stella was keyed up. Stanley whimpered. The little dog was by way of Stella’s canary in a coalmine. If something was wrong, Stanley knew first.

  The top of her head tingled when she poked it through the hatchway, eyes at floor level. If an attacker was waiting with an axe, this was the end. Jackie’s family had a rule only to go into the loft with someone in the house in case of an accident. Stella had imported this into her staff manual. Jack said there was a ruthless killer out there. What if the killer was a step ahead and waiting in the attic? Stella went as cold as ice.

  She forced herself to go up and stepped onto the boarded floor. Raising a hand, Stella confirmed that the shadow on the rafters was her own. The attic was spacious and, she quickly saw, with nowhere to hide. Aside from the boxes of dolls there was the chrome shelf unit that, too big for the hatch, Terry must have assembled on site.

  She sniffed. Beneath the smell of dust and papers was something else. Gillette Cool Wave aftershave. Terry’s aftershave. Stella clung to a rafter. The familiar tang recalled her dad as if she’d seen him minutes ago. She did not believe in ghosts.

  Jack talked about olfactory associations. Had her expectation of meeting Terry been so strong that she’d conjured up his smell? Stella felt disappointment. It was almost as if she’d hoped to find her dad there.

  The first time she’d gone into the attic, she’d discovered two cold cases on the shelf unit. One was the Rokesmith Case. When she and Jack solved it, Lucie May dubbed Stella the Clean-Up Detective. The girl who sweeps up after her dad. Loath to reinforce any impression that Terry was a rubbish detective, Stella decided to find her own investigations. The other case in the attic had stayed sealed. One day…

  She switched on the light, a bulb furred with dirt dangling from a rafter, and read writing on the first box: ‘…murder.’ The word was illegible. Other boxes were numbered one to four.

  At the trial in 1981, Danielle Hindle was described as ‘manipulative’. Jack said Penny was a True Host, a psychopath. He’d said they didn’t change. The court called her a fantasist. Penny had lied about corresponding with Terry. In the playground that had been her killing field the girl must have led a parallel life. A normal chatty ten-year-old. And a ruthless killer.

  Stella looked at the boxes. There wasn’t, in fact, a number three. Peering closer, she made out pencil scribble: ‘DH 1980 to…’

  Nineteen eighty was the year of the two murders. Terry died in 2011. DH.

  Fingers clumsy, Stella prised out the box and placing it on the floor, raised the lid. A fierce clamp gripped a batch of pale blue envelopes. The top one was addressed to the police station. ‘Detective Inspector Darrnell.’ Terry’s rank at the time of the murders. Stella’s clients often made the same spelling error. It was written by a child.

  Stella recognized the stationery. Basildon Bond. Suzie had made her pen thank yous to Terry and to his sister who lived abroad for the Christmas and birthday presents. She’d made Stella spend some of her money on a pad and matching envelopes in the post office. Nervous of making a mistake (and starting again), Stella had pressed so hard that writing had indented on the page beneath, providing a template for the next letter.

  I was so pleased to receive…

  Stella had written Terry other letters. Private ones. She told him about her day, promised to show him the ‘pot garden on my bedroom window sill’ and ‘Please could we go to the river on my axes weekend so you arrest that man who told me off for wriding my bike?’ Fearing that her dad would find them boring after being a busy detective, Stella had thrown them away. Now Stella wondered, had she posted them to Terry, would he have kept them in
a box in the attic?

  She prised open the clamp and removed the bundle. There were no replies. Terry was scrupulous, he would have kept photocopies of his letters to Hindle. Yet with no encouragement, Danielle Hindle continued writing. Three notes dating from before Danielle’s arrest were scribbled on scraps of paper, one on the back of a betting slip. Danielle had delivered them to the station.

  Some of the stamped envelopes had been addressed to Terry’s house. This house. All were dated after the trial when Hindle, too young for prison, had been sent to a special school in Buckinghamshire. She couldn’t leave the grounds so how had she posted them? Obvious suspects were sympathetic staff. Stella had read that, despite her heinous crimes (a favourite media adjective), adults had warmed to Danielle. A bright, attractive child, they felt sorry for her, some didn’t believe her guilty. Someone had translated sympathy into deed.

  Most were dated after Hindle turned eighteen and been moved to Holloway Prison. Letters would be censored, but any system could be circumvented. Perhaps she’d given a letter to a visitor. Although Stella had read that Danielle Hindle had had few visitors. She also knew that there were stalkers who continued to terrorize their victims in letters smuggled out of prison. Somehow Danielle Hindle, as a girl and a young woman, had got letters to the police officer who had put her away. Stella shivered. Letters were one thing; if Danielle Hindle had tried to murder Terry, she would have succeeded.

  One letter was postmarked Brighton. The cream paper weighted at 120 grams was what Stella used for client contracts. Danielle Hindle had become Penny Philips and lived in Winchcombe. Perhaps she’d come to Brighton for a seaside holiday. The next letter had been posted in Hastings along the coast. Three p.m., 12 August. The twelfth of August was Stella’s birthday. Not relevant. There was one from Shepherd’s Bush. Philips was not allowed to enter West London. The CCTV image captured on the afternoon of Rachel’s murder wasn’t the first time Penny had flouted the ban.

  Eddie Hindle had visited his daughter (before he returned to prison for breaking into a warehouse and stealing a van load of prescription drugs). Staff would have kept a watch on him in case he tried to sneak out – or sneak in – contraband for Danielle. Although, a professional criminal, Eddie Hindle surely hadn’t encouraged his daughter to make a penfriend of a police detective. Stella would ask Philips how she’d achieved it. At this thought, the beginnings of a headache went up a notch. It dawned on Stella that she never wanted to see the child-killer again.

  She heard whimpers. She peered through the hatchway. Stanley was circling the foot of the ladder. Although Stella had first come across him up a tree – throwing caution aside he’d chased a cat – he couldn’t manage a ladder. She gathered up the box and went down to him.

  Of the questions buzzing like hornets in her mind one was, Why had Terry risked his career for Danielle Hindle?

  Head throbbing, Stella settled on the carpet tiles and spread out the letters. With Stanley a warm bundle on her lap, she began to read.

  In an early note, Danielle wrote as if she was on Terry’s team. She had made a list of suspects – Nicola, Mr Ferris hits Lee, Lee might of done it he hated Sarah, sack that lady policeman and have me. Stella guessed that was Janet. Another of Terry’s friends, Janet had organized his funeral. Scribbled on the betting slip – Stella knew that Danielle’s father was a gambler – was, The murdrer is the man from Abba… I will arest him and you can keep hold of him with hand cufs. Stella imagined that, while Terry had supposed Derek Parsley the killer, this proposal must have worried him. The last thing he’d want was a child risking her life. Another letter caught her eye.

  Dear Detective Inspector Terry, The girls here have not seen a real life murderer. They took my autograph for being on the telee. I dident see you at tea time visiting. My dad came. My mum is a bitch so is that Nicola I never want to see them. Mum can’t take me to Madame Toosods like she promised. Some girls go outside so it’s not fair. When you visit bring sweets, space ships and bazooka. I told the girls Im a detective. They don’t believe me. If you come they wood. Its stupid Im here as Sarah was nasty and Lee hated her so thats alright now. Nicky will be on seventh heaven. Please will you fech me away? From Consterble Danielle Hindle. Ps. Please bring chocolate, Cadberrys with purple paper is best.

  Danielle had never admitted to Sarah’s murder. She could only have known details that she gave the police if she’d been present. Her descriptions – a first-person account including ‘the crunchy sound of brick on her neck’ – had been a giveaway. Jason Hindle admitted that his sister hadn’t taken him home. Only six, he couldn’t estimate how much later Danielle had been. His garbled account established that he’d seen (and made no sense of) that night’s episode of Crossroads. Danielle had returned in time for a quiz programme called Gambit. A discrepancy in the timeline in her statement of forty minutes.

  But it was her handstands that had been the clincher.

  The CPS didn’t charge Danielle Hindle with the murder of Robbie Walsh. There was insufficient evidence. Robbie’s injuries could have been sustained from falling, as much as from being pushed off the slide.

  After Hindle’s release in 1994 – she served fourteen years in three prisons – there were no letters for a year. At the special school, Hindle had got five O-levels, three A-levels. In Holloway she gained a first in Law from the Open University. She was better qualified than Stella with an ‘A’ in Maths ‘A’ level and a scraped English pass.

  I’m top of the class, but then no one else can read! You wait, I’ll be back at the Bailey sending those scumbags down. That’ll show all of them, won’t it!

  When Hindle graduated the Sun had run a splash: ‘Brainbox Killer to be QC.’ Stella knew that a convicted murderer could not be a barrister. So, presumably, did the Sun, but it would sell copies. Danielle Hindle wasn’t allowed to work with people so her choice of job was limited. Alan Ferris was quoted as ‘shocked and horrified’ that ‘the evil monster gets chances she denied my baby girl’. The problem with murder was that no amount of punishment fitted the crime.

  A later letter caused Stella to exclaim out loud. Stanley jumped. Scratching his ears, she read,

  My new name is Penelope Walters. I sound like a real Surrey housewife, don’t I! That explains the signature! I hope you’re OK. Well done you on your promotion. You deserve it! I still dream of being your ‘right hand man’ one of these days!

  I’m stretching my intellectual limits assembling Hi-Fi cabinets in a sweatshop outside Guildford. There’s a few ex-cons who are OK in a dim as furniture way, but most of them (no men) are idiots. I’m the only one with a degree. All they talk about is EastEnders and dieting. No one tells you it’s hard on the outside. And so untidy! I catch myself missing my cell. Home Sweet Home. At least there I could read and not listen to rubbish. It’s not fair.

  Stella scoured the text for proof that Terry had replied. How did Penelope Philips know that he’d been promoted? The information was easy to obtain if you knew where to look. But had Terry told her?

  Knowledge of Danielle Hindle’s new identity would be on a ‘need to know’ basis. Terry had no need. Nothing legislated for a person revealing their own identity. She read on.

  …Prince Charming walked into my life two months ago! Chris Philips is an antiques dealer. We met in a coffee shop. He says it was love at first sight. I was too busy guzzling a latte to notice him! When he asked me out I went because he’s the first decent man I’ve met. He wasn’t just interested in you know what.

  Now for the news! I’m having a baby. We’re getting married. Please come. Here’s the address…. Mum would have a fit if she knew I was going to have a child. So would the media. Shall I invite Hello??!!! Chris is a true gentleman. I’ve moved into his house. The scan says it’s a girl like you’ve got. Any advice welcomed! Get ready for another new name – It’s like Stars in Your Eyes, ‘Tonight I’m being Mrs Penny Philips!’

  Stella did the maths. If Penny Philips had Carrie in 1994, Carrie
was twenty-five. Stella had placed Carrie in her early thirties. Doubtless discovering one parent was a child-killer and that your dad had murdered his mistress added on years.

  Stella’s headache was excruciating, but she was too wired to sleep. She carried Stanley over to her desk and sat down, opening a new spreadsheet. Over the next two hours she compiled an index of the letters. Sent date and a key piece of information, e.g.: new ID, married, pregnant, Carrie’s birth, Carrie’s exam results. There were fifty-eight letters. By the time she’d finished, the screen appeared to shimmer and her head was ready to split open. For the first time in her life, Stella went to bed without undressing.

  *

  By seven o’clock, the morning rush hour outside Clean Slate was in full swing. Headlights strobing through the blinds striped the walls. The woman at a desk in a pool of angle-poised light compounded the film noir effect. Stella was reading the final letter that Danielle Hindle had sent to Terry.

  Someone was in the doorway. Stella had the presence of mind to aim the lamp and dazzle the intruder. She reached for her phone to call the police.

  ‘Stella, it’s me!’ Trudy came into the room.

  ‘Oh!’ Stella slipped Danielle’s letter under her keyboard.

  ‘Who else would it have been?’ Trudy laughed lightly.

  ‘It’s early.’ Stupid. It was no earlier than the time they were usually there.

  ‘Are you working on the case?’ Trudy flicked the light switch in the main office. Vaguely, Stella noted she hadn’t done so sooner. Like herself, Trudy assumed an intruder.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like another tea? That one looks cold.’ Trudy came over.

  ‘I’ll come and make it.’ Stella enjoyed her morning chats with Trudy. ‘You were right. Carrie Philips was keeping something back. Her mother was Danielle Hindle. The child-killer.’ Too late Stella knew she had made a mistake. They should not share the information with anyone. She reminded herself that she trusted Trudy. Except Jack said secrets escaped when you told the person you trusted who in turn told the person they trusted. Yet the team would have to be told or they were working in the dark. Trudy was as good as on the team. All the same, the slip was one that Terry would not have made.