Yesterday, Stella had left the office to work from home. But Trudy didn’t believe her. Nor from his twitchy behaviour did Jack. Last night Stella had been out when Trudy called by. By then Trudy had worked out where Stella had been the afternoon before and wondered why Stella hadn’t entered her second – solo – visit to Gloucestershire in the Investigation Log. Trudy had found the destination address on Stella’s satnav and she realized the identity of Justin’s imaginary friend. Stella had gone to Gloucestershire the previous afternoon to see Penelope Philips. She had not come back alone.
Trudy hadn’t spotted Jack until he was almost at the van. Jack didn’t trust her any more than he did Stella. She’d turned off the engine and greeted him. Stupidly, she’d dropped the slip of paper on which she’d scribbled the postcode, but Jack was too preoccupied with Stella to notice the postcode was Broadway not Winchcombe. She was pretty sure that he had believed her story that the paper was from Stella’s van. But you never knew with Jack, he’d been traumatized when he was about the same age as his kids. Jack didn’t believe anyone.
Trudy checked that Stella’s van wasn’t on the street or in any of the car parks. The coast was clear. She knocked on the door.
‘Can I help?’ A man was coming up the steps behind her.
‘I was looking for Penelope.’ Talk about taking your eye off the ball.
‘Are you a reporter?’ The man looked familiar.
‘Are you a friend of Penny’s?’ She barred the front door as if on guard. Turn the tables, make him the threat. Any minute the woman herself could emerge.
‘Yes.’ He was curt. But she noticed he checked behind him as if he could be caught out.
Expensively suited, neat haircut. Mid-forties. Pilates and jogging might give Trudy an edge because although he was thickset, the red cheeks were not from healthy outdoor living. A dossier case under his arm precluded the police. God squad? Too aggressive. Trudy realized why she knew him. From the case files. ‘Kevin Hood!’
‘Do I know you?’ He went pale beneath the web of broken veins.
‘Seen your website.’ She did a smile. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Penelope Philips is my client.’ Kevin Hood was a bad liar.
‘She’s not in.’ Trudy stood back. Hood knocked and frowned when he too got no answer.
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘Why wouldn’t she be?’ Trudy saw she’d made a mistake. Hood’s face darkened. The terrace had one flight of steps. There was no other way out.
The police had chosen a property hidden in plain sight. The neighbours were holiday renters. No one would pay attention to the occupant of No 1. At the back of the main street there was nobody to pay attention if Hood carried a knife.
He was still at the top of the stairs. She had only to push him. In films that did the trick, but if Hood lived she’d have to finish him with her own penknife. She’d never killed a man.
As if reading her mind, Hood moved away from the steps. He unzipped his document case and began scribbling on a yellow legal pad.
Who’s fooling who?
‘When you see Penny, say I called.’ As Trudy went down the steps her neck tingled with the likelihood that Hood might do to her what she’d considered doing to him.
‘Who shall I say called?’ Hood was leaning over the balcony rail.
‘A friend. From the old days.’
Trudy would have to tell Stella she’d been to Broadway and met a witness. Stella would think she had strayed into business that wasn’t her own. She would change her mind if Trudy told her that she’d found Rachel Cater’s killer.
Chapter Forty-Two
2019
The hallway was littered with unopened envelopes, junk mail and takeaway leaflets. Peeling off latex gloves, Cashman negotiated his way around the boxes of incontinence pads.
Stella was masked against the heady aroma of dried blood, stale faeces and urine. Laced with the stench of decomposition. Cashman again. ‘I was told this was an undiscovered body? Is it a crime?’
‘You offering to solve this death too?’ Cashman harrumphed. ‘Nothing to see here. This is due to self-neglect and disintegration. It’s not unlawful intrusion. Like the job sheet says, clean up and go.’
Stella was dismayed. Cashman had been her dad’s best friend. He’d never spoken to her like this. OK, so at the Philipses’ house he’d been strict, but not unpleasant. She squeezed past the burly detective in the narrow passage. According to the job sheet, the deceased occupant had been found in the kitchen. She moved aside more cartons of incontinence products and a stack of Ensure – a supplement drink – encased in plastic.
Everywhere, there were emptied tins of food erupting with mould, sauce bottles and dirty plates. A canister of Mr Sheen was a poignant sign of intention overwhelmed. Supermarket bags spilled out of a cupboard. A tower of newspapers had toppled over. Stella trod on something. Under her plastic over-shoed boot was a splash of blood. She’d killed something. A grinning plastic Noddy in his red jacket, hand raised in a wave.
There was blood, a black encrusted stain. It had dripped from the table where more blood pooled around a cornflakes packet and a litre of full cream milk that was long past cheese or yoghurt.
‘He died over his breakfast,’ Cashman said. ‘Cut himself. Bled to death. A neighbour reported the smell. After a month. No relatives, no friends. No one to miss him. Same story.’
Stella knew that, as young constables, Terry and Cashman were first-responders to such a scene. Lucie had said that if you lived alone, ten to one you died alone. Stella pictured the bowl and spoon draining by the sink in her dad’s kitchen after his death. Terry had died in public outside a shop. Another way to die alone. Unlike Terry, the man who’d lived in this filthy chaotic flat had no daughter to clean up his life.
‘…looks like the old guy was peeling an apple.’ Cashman pointed at a rotted lump mired in blackened blood. ‘Knife slipped. Hit a vein. Pathologist says death was from blood loss. No phone. Fainted. Couldn’t call for help. Not that he’d have got any. We canvassed the flats, no one knew him. It’s crammed with clutter.’
Cashman sounded unfeeling, but Stella knew that he talked like a telegram when he was upset. It wasn’t clutter. Stella had met a declutterer on a previous case. And many times she’d cleaned homes that needed one. Hoarders saw parting with anything as akin to murder. Then there were the collectors who stuck to one line. Toy cars, antique cake decorations, porcelain nymphs. This man’s home, stuffed with unused incontinent pads, junk mail and used food containers, was what happened when a person lost their grip on the daily round. It could happen to anyone.
While Stella relished doing the deepest of cleans – she could handle bodily excretions and decomposing matter – she wasn’t used to the fact that no amount of sanitizing made a happy ending.
‘Mr Clark’s wife died five years ago. He’d get out to the pharmacy to pick up scrips. And the supermarket for a bit of shopping. No one noticed when that stopped.’
There were footsteps in the passage. The team had arrived.
The brief was for ‘Remediation’. Deepest of deep cleans. Unseasonably warm Spring had accelerated decomposition. Clean Slate would dispose of the mattress, the box spring base. To prevent pathogens spreading they’d remove the sub-floor in the kitchen, chasing where blood had seeped. They would de-infest the flat of insects that had lived off the corpse.
After the prison visit, Jack had suggested a debrief back at hers, but unable to face him, she’d taken refuge in the crime scene job. Added to this, Stella was getting worried. She shouldn’t have left Hindle with Lucie. Lucie was no longer young or as tough as she made out.
‘I need a word, Stell.’
‘Are you calling a delay?’ Stella raised a staying hand to Donette who was hefting in the bag of tools.
‘No.’ Cashman stepped out of Donette’s way and tipped his head to the front door.
Stella joined him on the street beside a brand new black Lexus. Did he
want her to admire his car?
‘You need to back off!’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re way out of your depth. Stick to what you do best!’ He gestured at the Clean Slate van.
‘I’ve got this scene under control.’ She was icy. No one told her how to do her job.
‘I’m talking about the Cater case. It’s over. The right man is doing time. Listen, Stell, take this the right way. I promised Terry I’d watch out for you. That’s what I’m doing! I’m ordering you off!’
Had Lucie broken the habit of a lifetime and called the police? How did he know about Hindle? Stella’s mouth went dry, she was in serious trouble.
‘…did you think you could drop in on a convicted felon without me knowing?’
He didn’t know about Hindle. Inadvertently, Stella smiled.
‘It’s not funny!’ Cashman sputtered. ‘Philips had an affair. It spiralled out of control, he panicked. He had to get rid of Cater. He’s a common or garden killer. He’ll stay in jail until he’s off the zimmer and feeding through a straw.’
Although Martin disliked that Stella was a private detective – wrongly, he considered cleaning safer – he did respect her solve rate. Once, during their affair, he’d shared details of a live investigation with her. Jack insisted that Stella had never seen the real Cashman. She was seeing him now. Brutish and dictatorial. Wounded, she sniped back.
‘Chris Philips believes his daughter did it. Rachel told him.’ From his face it was clear that Cashman didn’t know what Philips had said to her in the prison. Cashman could have Stella for withholding information.
‘He’s winding you up.’
‘Danielle Hindle thinks Carrie did it too.’ If hung for a sheep…
‘You’ve talked to Dan— Penelope Philips? Jesus, Stella!’ Cashman leaned on the bonnet of the Lexus.
‘We do whatever the client asks us if it’s legal.’
‘I’m begging you, Stella.’ Cashman softened. ‘Walk away. This is messed up, it’s not for you. Family are the least reliable witnesses, you know that. And this family is toxic.’
‘I’m keeping an open mind. Maybe Christopher Philips did do it. But if there’s the slightest chance that he’s protecting his daughter or his wife, or both, we have been paid to investigate.’ Stella sweltered in her protective suit. ‘Did you double check Danielle Hindle’s alibi?’
‘Don’t call her Danielle Hindle! You’re playing with an incendiary.’ Fiddling with his car keys Cashman was locking and unlocking the vehicle. ‘And yes we did check it. Penelope Philips admitted she was in London. All alibis check out. We were discreet. Maxine Hindle was at her salon. She grabbed half an hour for lunch, but had no time to get to Winchcombe and in the likelihood it occurred to you too, we have her on a camera the other side of the borough. It’s definitely Hin—Philips in Dalgarno Gardens.’ Unconsciously, Cashman had slipped into treating Stella like a CID partner. ‘Jason was at home with Joy and their phones agree. Lee Marshall went under a train two years ago. His wife went back to Sydney where she’d grown up and yes, she was down under that afternoon. Local police spoke to her. Nicola Walsh was withdrawing dosh from an ATM outside a bank in Kew. But Nicola – and this goes for all the surviving parents too – struggles to manage her own life let alone stop someone else’s. The point is, no one knows who Danielle Hindle is now. Christ, even Lucie May can’t find her.’
‘Maxine Hindle knows,’ Stella said.
‘How do you know?’
‘She as good as told us. She’s jealous of her sister. She reckons she’s landed on her feet.’
‘She could have read that in the papers. They know Hindle is married and has a daughter.’
‘Alright so I could be wrong.’ Stella felt for Martin, he’d lost Terry too. She made a decision. ‘I found this at the house in Winchcombe. I was going to give it to you.’
She fumbled into the depths of the suit and found the charm in the pocket of her jeans.
‘Best Sister.’ Cashman held it up to the light. ‘We never found that.’
‘I thought Derek Parsley found the bracelet and put it back on Sarah’s wrist. This was missing.’
‘He did. That’s why we suspected him. One of the reasons. That Hindle girl had it all along. Terry said she did. She lied when he asked her.’
‘Was the charm always missing?’ This had never been made public.
‘Yes. Where did you say you found it?’ He looked at her sharply.
‘In the house. When we went to see Penelope Philips. I shouldn’t have taken it.’
‘No, you shouldn’t. But then if you’d left it, she’d have found it and hidden it. It’s all too late now. She would have denied it was Sarah’s. But how has she kept it all these years?’
‘It might not be Sarah’s. Christopher Philips was an antiques dealer – he could have found it.’
‘She could have hidden it in the playground. She was caught on the CCTV.’ Martin pushed off the bonnet, buffing the paintwork with his sleeve. ‘Terry always said you’d make a skilled detective.’ He dropped the charm into an evidence bag.
‘He said that about you.’ Stella hoped Martin’s detective skills didn’t run to realizing that Danielle Hindle was in Lucie May’s spare room. She was grateful they were getting on. She needed Cashman on her side and, after all, he was a link to her dad. And – she felt bad for thinking it – he could give her an insider’s view of the case.
‘Christopher Philips is protecting someone. Meeting him, I don’t think he killed Rachel Cater,’ Stella mused.
‘After one half-hour visit?’ Cashman was angry that his being Mr Nice hadn’t put her off. ‘We do not need you and that Engine Driver stamping in with his size tens, compromising the safety of Penelope Philips or her daughter.’ He opened the car and got in. ‘Stella, I can’t cut you any slack. You’re on your own. If I have to, I’ll revoke your PI licence like that!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘It’s only what Terry would do.’
Pause. Stella and Cashman both knew that using Terry was a low ploy.
‘Did Dad see Danielle Hindle after she got out?’ Stella’s head felt as if it was splitting. She needed to know and she really did not want to know if he had.
‘That’s against the rules. Listen, Stell. That girl was evil. A natural born killer. Terry wouldn’t have met her. You know that. Like Terry said, you knew him better than all of us.’ He fingered the car’s black leather interior.
‘Did Dad think she was innocent?’ Penelope Philips had said Terry had thought so.
‘None of us imagined her guilty. She seemed like an ordinary cheeky kid hanging about to get attention. She wanted to be a detective. It’s what we dreamed of, Terry and me, our kids following in our footsteps.’ Cashman looked wistful. Stella knew that his daughter was a maths teacher and the son ran a bike repair shop. ‘All the same, this is police work, Stella. The right man is doing time for Rachel’s murder.’ He swiped on his seat belt. ‘I trust you. But that bloke of yours is hand-in-glove with Lucie May. If Lucie got a whiff…’
‘So, Terry never saw Philips when she was released?’ Stella wanted to put her hands over her ears to block out the answer.
‘No. He did not. If Hindle’s told you different, it’s to wind you up. The whole bloody family is playing you. That kid was a liar and believe me, she hasn’t changed.’ He’d forgotten about calling Hindle by her new name.
After Cashman had gone, Stella got out her phone thinking to tell Jack about the charm. Jabbing at keys she accidentally opened the Skype picture that she’d taken of Jo Marshall.
Stella took up Jack’s suggestion and forwarded the photo to her brother, asking him to look up Joanne Marshall. There must be dozens of Joanne Marshalls in Sydney. It was a small needle in a very big haystack.
Christopher Philips believed his daughter had murdered Rachel. Why? Stella watched a fox slink across the road. She’d got a client who got paid to go out at night shooting foxes. Stella couldn’t imagine killing anything. Her
client said it was just a job. Was that what Danielle Hindle thought as she stood on her hands and crushed Sarah Ferris with a brick? The pathologist’s report stated that ‘The deep abrasions to the neck implied that the attacker applied force, the hyoid is crushed.’ Stella knew that the hyoid was a bone shaped like a horse shoe in the neck. Hindle was a smart child. Smart enough to know that by throwing her whole weight onto Sarah she would crush the life out of her. Stella found she had stopped breathing as she pictured the murder. Hindle had done a handstand on Sarah. A twisted version of a child’s game.
Rachel Cater’s murder was just as brutal. Not the work of a paid assassin who’d now moved on to other jobs, other victims.
Carrie had been going to stay with her parents the evening that Cater was murdered. Perhaps she’d arrived early. Christopher had said that Carrie was good. If she’d killed Rachel Cater she was far from good.
Jack would call the fox a sign. When Stella returned to the deep clean, she was still trying to decipher it.
Chapter Forty-Three
2019
‘Selective hearing,’ Jack said when she told him.
They were in Stella’s kitchen drinking tea and taking stock. Chewing the cud of a case was how their relationship had begun. Stella had rung last night after her scene clean and asked him over. As if nothing was wrong between them.
‘Chris Philips thinks that Carrie did it, but as my mum said, fathers don’t necessarily know their daughters.’
Had Terry known Stella? Did he know Milly?
‘We’re down to two possible motives for Rachel’s murder.’ Stella updated the suspect list. ‘One, the killer was really after Danielle Hindle and two, Carrie, Christopher or Penelope intended Rachel as the victim.’ She turned the laptop around so Jack could see the spreadsheet. She had added more columns and populated cells wth freshly discovered information.
The Playground Murders Page 28