‘Do you think Penny Philips murdered Rachel Cater?’ Trudy said. ‘Didn’t the police discount her?’
‘She has an alibi. But she has motive. She was very angry about her husband betraying her.’ Stella couldn’t bear to remember Penelope Philips. Not a great way to start a case. She must toughen up.
‘Who would be?’ Trudy pulled a face. ‘What’s next?’
‘Follow the evidence.’ Stella gave a grim smile. ‘We need to find the relatives.’
‘What do you mean?’ Trudy remained outside the circle of light.
‘Never once during the trial did Danielle Hindle admit to her crimes. She writes as if the murders were nothing to do with her. She wanted to be a detective like my father. I suppose that’s why…’ She had not meant to mention the letters.
‘Maybe your dad was the father they never had.’ Trudy hadn’t picked up on what was much more than a slip.
‘Her father went to prison and when he came out he didn’t get in touch. Joy Hindle disowned Danielle when she found out what she’d done.’ Stella recalled a photograph of Eddie Hindle working on a motorbike, shirt tucked into eighties-style trousers. Aquiline features, fine hair combed back from his face. The papers had described him as a charmer. Jack was charming but he was also a good dad.
‘The parents sound beyond dysfunctional. By all accounts your dad was a hero, no wonder this kid wanted his attention.’ Trudy switched on the photocopier and whipped the cover off her computer.
Terry was a lovely dad. Stella had seen that too late. Although Terry had never received Stella’s letter asking that he deal with the nasty man at the river, Terry had arrested him. Stella was still learning how much her dad had loved her.
Beverly arrived. Stella made her tea. When Jack got there they’d have a meeting. Beverly had set up an appointment for Jack and Stella with Kevin Hood, the man who had seen Rachel Cater go into the Philipses’ house. A mortgage broker, he’d been easy to find.
As Stella mashed the teabag inside Beverly’s mug, she replayed Trudy’s remark about Terry. Observant and hot on detail, Trudy didn’t miss a thing. No PA could be as good as Jackie but Trudy came a close second.
Chapter Twenty-Three
1981
‘Today, justice was done. My team worked hard to find the killer of Sarah Ferris. It gives us satisfaction to have achieved a conviction. But where there is murder, no one is a winner. This was a terrible crime, the like of which I never want to see again. The Metropolitan Police offer our condolences to Sarah’s family. We hope that this verdict can bring them some peace of mind. That’s all, thanks.’
Terry pushed through reporters down the court steps to the car.
‘That’s not the speech I signed off.’ The man stared ahead, his face, pitted with acne, shielded from lenses crowding the window by a rolled copy of the Daily Mail. ‘You left out that the Hindle girl’s a freak of nature who we’re happy to have locked up.’
‘I couldn’t say it, sir.’ Sliding onto the back seat next to DCS Lockwood, Terry had expected this.
‘I’m sorry?’ Chief Superintendent Lockwood’s eyes were narrow slits in pudgy cheeks. ‘Detective Inspector, you need to get used to this lot or they’ll eat you alive!’
‘I mean Danielle Hindle’s not a freak of nature. She’s a very disturbed kid who no one likes. She latched onto me.’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear any of that, or you won’t even be back on the beat wearing out shoe leather.’ Lockwood surveyed the good and bad of London as the car sped towards Shepherd’s Bush. Terry Darnell – Top Cat – was one of his best officers. He’d just wrapped up a highly sensitive investigation. Lockwood had put him forward for a commendation. Darnell was police to the core. But his failing was that bloody heart on his sleeve. Lockwood used his paper to swat a fly that stood for every do-gooder who made policing harder. ‘The last thing I need is you having a soft spot for that girl, she’s a bad seed. She should be in Holloway. A special school? Gets her own shrink, all mod cons, she’ll be cossetted like Shirley Temple!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Terry pictured Danielle Hindle’s expression when the foreman had said ‘Guilty’. Perched in the dock – on a platform built so that the court could see her – unlike most of the adults in Court No 7, she’d never fidgeted. She took in everything.
Lockwood was wrong about Terry. Although he did care about those he served, whether criminal or not, he had not got a soft spot for Danielle Hindle. He was shocked that a child so young could do something so terrible as take a life. Most likely two lives. She had shown no remorse. He could not get her out of his head. What kind of child was she? He’d been taught to interrogate a crime. Where did it happen? Why did it happen? Get to know the victim and find something – anything – that might lead to their killer. Was it an ex, a sibling, a chance acquaintance, a colleague? Never had he suspected a playground friend.
Danielle was, as Terry had said to Lucie, an incomparable witness. The shuffling and coughing in the court stopped when she spoke. You could have heard a pin drop. Terry watched the girl listen to the counsel’s questions and then, a smile playing over her lips, she tailored her replies to fit evidence that she’d absorbed during the trial. Incomparable. Danielle Hindle was beyond him. Battling to make sense of her, Terry couldn’t rid his mind of her. None of this could he tell his boss.
They passed Buckingham Palace. Danielle had wanted to meet the Queen. ‘Tell her I found a murderer. She will give me a medal.’ Unless Her Majesty kept to the racing pages, she’d be well aware of Danielle Hindle now. Young Kevin had said in his statement that Sarah confessed that she’d seen a terrible thing, but not said what it was. Terry had said the police were satisfied with the verdict. Not true. He was haunted by unanswered questions. Had Sarah watched Danielle push Robbie off the slide? Did Danielle find out and kill Sarah? Had Danielle stolen Sarah’s ‘Best Sister’ charm, missing off the bracelet? They’d failed to find it in the Hindle house. Derek Parsley must have discovered Sarah in the bushes. Unable to save her he carried her into the playground where she’d be found. That explained the blood on his clothes. Terry and Cashman had as good as coerced a confession out of him. It had been perfectly legal, but Terry didn’t feel good about it. The man’s death was on his hands. Terry had mistaken Parsley’s shaking as fear of being found guilty of murder. Parsley had been afraid of a ten-year-old child.
Broadsheet op-eds had expressed concern that the trial – a plethora of wigs, gowns, legalese and the media scrum – was crazy theatre to the little girl from Shepherd’s Bush. An Observer pundit wrote that when Danielle stood to hear her sentence, she’d looked like the grinning Cheshire Cat. Terry had thought of his Stella. He found himself willing Danielle back in that chaotic household in Braybrook Street. Eddie Hindle, a common or garden criminal, was normal. Eddie’s daughter had tipped Terry’s world upside down. That she was off the streets and out of the playground gave him no satisfaction. She would always be in his head.
As the driver parked around the back of Hammersmith police station, Terry reflected that Danielle’s life would never again be normal. He’d never forget the look she had given him as she was led down to the cells. Betrayal.
‘You know the drill, Terry,’ Lockwood said to him outside CID. ‘Do not think of selling your story. You’re a good detective, don’t chuck that away. No sympathy for the devil!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Terry smarted at the suggestion that he’d talk to the press. Although he already had.
*
Terry stayed so long in the lift when it reached Suzie’s landing that it got called and he had to travel back down to the lobby. As it juddered past each floor he fretted about the mechanism. Suzie had complained to the management company about the shoddy cleaning and peeling wallpaper in her mansion block. When was the lift last serviced? Terry would tell Stella and Suzie to use the stairs until it got sorted.
An elderly man, coat collar up against the bitter night, wispy hair smeared over a bald pate, waited as T
erry dragged aside the grille. Terry touched his forehead as if he’d forgotten something and drew the gate shut. The man got off at the next floor.
Even before he pressed her bell, Suzie flung her door open.
‘Terry, what are you doing here?’ She feigned surprise but Terry’s heart lifted. She’d known that he would come. A cooking aroma drifted out. ‘I saw you on the news. Awful about that girl. That’s her life over. What was she thinking? How are you?’
Often Terry had imagined coming to the Barons Court flat and begging his wife and daughter to come home. After a few pints of Fuller’s London Pride down the Ram, the fantasy gained credence, only to clarify as absurd as he unlocked his empty house.
Tonight, he was sober. He’d parked outside intending to sit there. He’d craned up and seen lights in Suzie’s living room. Then he was going up in the lift.
Nor had Terry planned that when Suzie invited him in that he’d burst into tears and fall into her arms.
Chapter Twenty-Four
2019
Kevin Hood’s mortgage brokerage was above a fish and chip shop on the Uxbridge Road.
‘Story is, you’re buying a house and starting a family,’ Beverly had crowed. ‘Trudy’s done income and expenditure scenarios that prove you’re solvent. We didn’t fib about your occupations: cleaner and train driver is way cool.’
Walking past Uxbridge police station where Terry’s career had begun, Stella and Jack decided that Stella would be what Jack called the awkward squad and Jack the loving partner, keen to settle the loan on their first home together. Stella’s ‘bad cop’ would be circumspect about a loan. That took no pretence. Stella would quiz Hood’s financial qualifications. Jack would be charming. He’d bond with Hood, find out about his family, any children or pets. Stuff he did with strangers anyway.
Stella wasn’t keen on going undercover. Even less keen to pose as new clients for Hood, raising his hopes of new business. It frustrated Jackie that Stella wouldn’t mystery-shop Clean Slate’s major cleaning competitor.
The staircase reeked of stale cooking oil. Despite her suspicious mind, Stella didn’t hold frayed and sticky lino against Hood. Shabby common parts didn’t always signify a dodgy outfit. Until she’d taken over Clean Slate’s building, her landlord had refused to replace similar worn flooring.
Jack knocked on a door labelled ‘Hood and Son make your dreams come true!’
A voice called, ‘Come in, come in. Come in.’ With increasing enthusiasm.
They squeezed into an office filled with a desk, a once white computer with a boxy monitor and two visitors’ chairs. Stella spotted Mortgages for Dummies (3rd edition) amongst a stack of magazines and books. She hoped Kevin wasn’t the dummy, then reminded herself they didn’t actually need a loan. Jack said a ‘good liar believes their own lies’. She didn’t want to be good at lying. No sign of the ‘son’, unless he was Kevin.
Jack and Stella squeezed into the chairs. If anyone tried to enter, the door would hit Stella in the back. Something told her that no one would try.
The contrast between Hood and his down-at-heel office was startling. He might have stepped from Vogue. Under the desk, Stella glimpsed Oxford brogues. His short hair was Scandinavian blond, mussed and teased with studied negligence. His skinny ‘window-pane’ check sage-green suit flattered a trim figure. Stella sniffed Creed’s Aventus, an aftershave worn by one of her city clients. Unfortunately, the ‘top notes’ of bergamot and apple were drowned by the crashing bass of the chip shop below. Either Hood sank his profit into his wardrobe or there was no profit. He wore a thick gold band on his wedding finger. Stella got the situation. Hood was soaring by the seat of his skinny-fit trousers. Her guilt at wasting his time went up a notch. On the other hand, if Kevin Hood had murdered Rachel Cater then she had no compunction about wasting his time pretending to bring work.
Hood picked up his phone and pressed a button. ‘I’m busy for the next hour, Shirley. Two seconds.’ He asked if they’d like drinks. His hand cupped over the mouthpiece was a giveaway, their reply could hardly be confidential. There was no Shirley. Jack must have guessed too, because like Stella he saved Hood the pantomime of pursuing the fiction and shook his head.
‘We want a mortgage, Mr Hood. We’re going to live together, tie the knot. Settle down!’ Jack grabbed Stella’s hand and gave it a courtly kiss. ‘Live happily ever after!’
Yes, all right. Stella rolled her eyes at Jack.
‘Call me Kevin. Kev. Congratulations! I can’t recommend wedded bliss enough.’ Kevin waggled his ring finger. So, Stella decided, he too was play-acting.
‘Yes, we’re moving out of London finally,’ Jack chattered. ‘To the country. Clean air, peace and quiet, birdsong, fields, cows, sheep…’ A city boy, Jack ground to silence.
‘We’re looking to borrow no more than three hundred thousand pounds.’ Stella got to business. ‘We want a house. Three bedrooms. Off-street parking.’
Beverly had advised they say four hundred, but ever careful and believing her own lie, Stella had forgotten.
‘Doable definitely. One hundred per cent. Let’s get this party started.’ Realigning objects on his desk – stapler, a tube of hand cream and an iPhone 5 – Hood opened a wallet in which was a yellow lined legal pad and a gold fountain pen. He swung the monitor to part face them and scooting the mouse, brought up a blank record screen. ‘Your dream awaits!’
‘How long have you been a broker?’ Stella fired her first dart.
‘Since school. Too many years ago to say!’ Kevin must have guessed from Stella’s expression what he was expected to say. ‘Started at sixteen. I’m forty-five so nearly thirty years! I know the pitfalls and crevices. I’ll slalom you through the rapids.’ Even Stella, not given to flowery language, spotted the mixed metaphors.
‘Is Hood and Sons you?’ She looked about as if a father or son Hood could be concealed somewhere in the cramped room.
‘I’m the son. My old man passed a couple of years ago. Bless him.’ Kevin looked genuinely upset then repainted his chirpy grin. ‘Where are you moving to, if I may ask?’
Stella knew from a sales course she’d attended in the early days of Clean Slate that Hood was ‘warming up the customer’. She’d never got ‘hook, convert, sell’. People wanted cleaning or they didn’t. Lucie warned that cuts in the police meant fewer detectives, soaring crime rates and more private investigators. Clean Slate Detective Services must be competitive.
‘Winchcombe.’ Jack beamed.
‘Lovely!’ Rocking in his chair, his desperation ill-concealed, Hood jumped straight to convert. ‘It’s a beautiful place.’
‘Do you know it?’ Stella tensed. They’d hit what Lucie called pay-dirt sooner than expected.
‘My wife comes from there. My mum-in-law still lives in the village.’ He swapped the stapler with his phone on the desk. Nervous.
‘Does your wife miss it? Quite a contrast to London.’ Jack piled in, all warm and fluffy. Stella did a granite stare.
‘She longed for the bright lights of London Town. Me, I’d give anything to do what you’re doing. Winchcombe’s heaven on earth.’
‘Where did you grow up?’ Elbow on the chair arm, Jack rested his chin on a hand.
‘West London, Braybrook Street. You may have heard of it?’
‘Is it famous?’ Jack did a puzzled face. Both of them tensed.
At that moment Stella got a text.
‘I have to get this,’ she apologized.
Trudy told us about PP. Stop. Kevin Hood was friend of DH in the eighties. Stop. Bev. Stop
Unlike Stella, Beverly’s texts were not prey to dictation software expressing punctuation in words Bev longed for the era of telegrams and trilby hatted PIs.
Stella absorbed the meaning. Kevin Hood was the last person to see Rachel Cater alive. He had also been a friend of Danielle Hindle.
‘For the wrong reason. Three coppers were killed there in the sixties. Scars a place, something like that. You never forget.’
‘Isn’t that near where that girl lived who killed those children?’ Jack sat up. ‘Doris… um?’
‘Danielle.’ Hood’s face clouded. ‘Danielle Hindle. I was friends with her brother.’
‘You need to see this.’ Stella showed Jack the phone.
‘Oh, shame she can’t come. We’ll find another date.’ Jack was quick. He rubbed his hands. ‘So, Kevin, how does this work? We tell you our salaries and you work out what we can borrow?’
‘Sorry, I got sidetracked down memory lane there for a minute.’ Kevin appeared ruffled.
Stella wanted to hook out more information on Hood’s knowledge of Danielle Hindle, but supposed Jack was playing it carefully.
For the next quarter of an hour Hood plugged their earnings and outgoings into his computer. Finally he printed up their mortgage estimate. Beverly had inflated their income to avoid hitting obstacles that would divert from the real objective. All the same, Stella was impressed when Kevin advised them to stay under budget to allow for contingencies. If she were applying for a mortgage, she might choose him. Or maybe not. Hood had known Danielle Hindle when they were kids. He visited the village where Hindle lived now. Circumstantial, but Stella had shot him to the top of the suspect list.
Second dart: ‘How well did you know Danielle Hindle?’
‘Not so much. We moved to the street when I was three. I met her brother Jason at nursery school. And Robbie Walsh and Sarah Ferris.’ Hood turned his wedding ring. ‘The murdered children. Robbie was my best mate.’ He appeared to scrutinize the screen showing their mortgage details. ‘I envied Jason his two older sisters, I’m an only child. Danielle was kind.’
The Playground Murders Page 17