Ghost Girl (48 page)

It felt as if she were in remote countryside cut off from the city. On another evening Dukes Meadows might be scenic, but tonight the area was fraught with threat. David’s story of the dead woman propped against the tree was too real, too possible.

A layer of mist was suspended over the river, tinged with red. Stella caught the looming bulk of the brewery; the red tinge came from the light of the Budweiser logo. David had said that in 1959 a policeman described Elizabeth Figg as apparently sunbathing, gazing over the river towards the Watneys brewery.

The willow tree was on a sloping verge between the road and the towpath. Stella stumbled on thick twisting roots and steadied herself on the trunk. Elizabeth Figg’s body was discovered right here. She stared out through long trailing fronds that swept wildly in the wind and saw the glow of the brewery sign – Budweiser now. Then swirls of mist obliterated it. She turned to the tree and heard herself whisper: ‘Rest in peace, Elizabeth.’ She agreed with David, it was important to remember the dead.

She hurried along the track, now harder to see in the fading light. Wreaths of fog parted and she saw that her van was the only vehicle by the boathouse.

Marian was fifteen minutes late. Stella got back in the van. She was damp and cold and wished herself back in David Barlow’s light sunny kitchen. She was startled by a noise on the windscreen; hailstones bounced off the bonnet. She flicked on her wipers, but the chips of ice made them sluggish and the screech-screech of the blades frayed her nerves. She was stuck here. Until she could see properly she could not leave.

After a grindingly long time, the hail reverted to the mizzling rain. Green and brown smudges resolved into the willow tree. Someone was standing under it. Marian had been there all along. Stella depressed the button and the glass slid down. She breathed air heavy with sodden vegetation and river mud. There was no one.

She reversed jerkily on to the road. She would call Marian when she was out of the dead zone.

A figure stepped out of the blackness. Stella slammed on the brake and the van went into a skid; boats zoomed towards her; she heaved on the handbrake. The van turned full circle and came to a stop.

A face was at the window. With relief, Stella recognized David Barlow.

67

Saturday, 5 May 2012

Fog floated across from the river; it wrapped itself around the boats and made phantoms of trees along the bank; wisps caught like tendrils around the wing mirrors. The wind had dropped and the chinking sound of the boats by the shore had ceased. Stella had left the engine running, the sound lost in the muffled quiet.

‘I hope I didn’t scare you.’ Stanley sat on his lap; head back, chest puffed, he darted swift looks about him. Plain curiosity, she decided. Nothing suggested he sensed the supernatural. Stella’s fear finally evaporated.

David’s hair hung in dripping strands. His collar up, he warmed his hands at the van’s heating vents. That he had turned up in this Godforsaken place was too good to be true. Now she had guessed he was in his sixties, she reflected that he looked much younger. In the dim light his profile, lean and spare, took her breath away.

She gave a sudden laugh. ‘I was already scared.’

‘I did wonder at your friend suggesting here.’ David made a porthole in his steamed-up side window. ‘I had to see that you were all right.’

‘Thanks.’ Stella wanted to say she was pleased but couldn’t think how to phrase it.

‘The tree where they found her is over there.’

‘I’d forgotten about that.’ Stella didn’t say she had gone out of her way to find the willow tree and had whispered to Elizabeth Figg. He might think her odd. Instead: ‘You said you were off out.’

‘I wish I could postpone, since your friend’s let you down.’ He stroked the dog. ‘But I can’t.’ His thigh was centimetres from Stella’s knee. ‘Call it deep cleaning or tying up loose ends. ’ He rested his hand on the dog’s shoulder.

Stella braced herself for some personal stuff. It was a bit soon, she told herself. She could tell him about the blue folder. He had remembered Elizabeth Figg; she was sure he would understand.

David must be a little afraid, for, as Jack always did when they were in the streets where the men had been murdered, he pressed the mechanism on the handle and locked the van’s doors.

‘Next week.’ Stella reached out and touched his hand.

68

Saturday, 5 May 2012

‘What is your name?’

‘Myra Thornton.’

The paramedics – a man and a lady – were being nice. They lifted Daddy on to a stretcher. It would be touch and go, they warned. She could go with Daddy in the ambulance; Michael was too little. She ordered him to clean his teeth and go to bed.

All the way down the five flights of stairs, she said a prayer to the Angel. ‘Please don’t let Daddy die.’ She clutched his hand and the Angel’s jewels dug into her palm. Jade blesses whatever it touches.

Stella Darnell was pretending to be her friend. Mary had been going to invite her for tea. She never asked friends back in case they asked about the empty bedroom. She was proud of her new friend and it was all she could do not to tell Daddy. Not a new friend. She had no old friends. Daddy would forbid it so she didn’t. Stella had usurped her trust. Terry Darnell would be proud that Marian had worked out who was in the office when the printer was used. He would disown his daughter. After what she had done, Stella was not a friend.

I’m your friend.

You’re my brother. Anyway I don’t care about friends, you don’t miss what you’ve never had.

Yes, you do.

The cleaner was not meant to be her friend. She was her salvation. She had led her to David Henry Barlow of Aldensley Road. If she had not followed her from the cemetery, she would never have found him. Terry said good detection relied on legwork. She could have ignored Stella, laid her lilies at Michael’s grave and come to work. God had rewarded her. Stella Darnell had betrayed her. Cleanliness is next to godliness. That was a lie, she would tell Daddy.

I killed the Hampson widow, Daddy. I was sorting it out. Like you do.

You didn’t kill her, it was an accident.

I did.

You didn’t. She fell. It was an accident.

I didn’t call an ambulance. That was on purpose.

She banged her head and became dead. You didn’t do that.

Daddy didn’t know about David Henry Barlow and how clever she was.

I think you’re clever!

‘You don’t count.’ She said it out loud and a nurse passing her chair glanced at her. Myra Thornton smiled to show she was not mad.

Daddy will die and never know.

I know. Have some chocolate, I got it for you.

Stop playing with your food.

All she wanted was to do her job at the police station, come home, make tea and go to bed. She was never late. Every day. Job. Home. Tea. Bed.

Matthew Benson had been nasty when she said she couldn’t see him. It had shocked her. David Barlow had been polite. He promised he would be punctual.

I like him.

No you don’t, and close your mouth when you’re eating, I can see mashed-up food.

David Henry Barlow only agreed when she suggested he donate the money to charity. He had laughed when she called it compensation, as if the word was too big for her. That wasn’t nice. Daddy, don’t die now.

‘Myra Thornton?’ The woman who had asked her to wait while they treated Daddy was back.

‘Yes, doctor.’ She struggled to her feet.

‘You can see your father now.’

‘How is he?’

‘He’s suffered a massive heart attack. You being there will comfort him.’

‘I have to work.’ She could not say that only one thing would bring comfort. He would want to hear that she had done what he asked.

‘Come in for a minute or two? Your father is seriously ill.’

The doctor would think her unfeeling. Myra might tell her that she would do anything for her daddy.

At the door to the side ward, she paused. ‘Is there a ladies’?’ She didn’t like saying ‘toilets’.

‘Up the corridor on the left. Can you find your way back here?’

Mary washed her hands like doctors did and kept washing until she had killed all the germs.

When she came out, the doctor had gone. She hurried to the lift. It was too late for Dukes Meadows. The cleaner had not called to see if she was all right.

Don’t cry. I bought you chocolate.

‘Brought not bought.’ Myra croaked, she blinked back scalding tears.

The streets of Hammersmith were smeared with blood from where she had cut Daddy’s hand and saved the man he thought was Michael. Except that couldn’t be true because he wouldn’t hurt Michael. He liked boys best. The doctor was wrong. It was God punishing her.

Don’t stand there. Get the dustpan and brush!

She dropped her satchel and, squatting on the floor, collected up guttering, downpipes, shattered chimney pieces, chunks of brick wall, slabs of pavements, the gables and sign posts, lawns and lamp-posts. ‘I’m helping you, Daddy.’ She was hot with the effort.

She ducked inside his special trapdoor.

‘Who were you talking to?’

Your brother.

‘Michael’s dead, Daddy.

It should have been you.

She did not tell the doctor that it was her fault about the man. She had saved her brother from Daddy. She had saved his life. She had. She had.

When she had done what she was told, the Angel would set her free.

Mary heard the big front door open. She had left it on the latch for the ambulance crew and forgotten to lock it. She trotted down the stairs to the landing and looked over the banister. She nearly cried out with joy when she saw her.

She’s come about me. Not you. She’s being a detective.

Michael was right. It was too late to make a friend. She continued down to the basement and walked out through the basement door, noticing as she went that the putty around the side window was loose and needed mending.

69

Saturday, 5 May 1912

Jack triggered a clangour of Big Ben chimes. He snatched his finger off the bell. No one came. The house was screened by a hydrangea bush; Jack bent down and peered through the letterbox. At the end of a passage was a table with a teapot.

He stepped away from the door and scoured the upstairs windows. All the curtains were shut. Stella had defended Barlow when Jack suggested he had something to hide. She didn’t go as far as saying it was none of his business. Stella was his business.

He had failed Amanda; he would not fail Stella. Her haphazard judgement of character sent her sleepwalking into life-threatening situations. She would trust anyone who presented her with a cleaning challenge. He called Stella and again got her voicemail. He left a message, speaking loudly, as if she was behind the curtains. She must hear. ‘Stell? Tell me you’re OK.’ The curtains did not move. ‘Love Jack.’ He was practically shouting. He rang off.

He couldn’t call the police on the basis of a gut feeling. Stella for one would never forgive him.

A door at the side of the house was ajar. Jack crept down the passage and found himself in one of the neatest gardens he had ever seen. No weeds, and regimented daffodils defined three borders. The lawn could serve as a bowling green.

He felt churning fear. The enforced symmetry and compartmentalized order was the work of a True Host. Jack spent nights searching out such people while Stella attracted them in the course of her work. Naturally she did; Hosts had high standards of hygiene.

He tried a sliding patio door into the kitchen. Locked. He nearly burst into tears. Two washed mugs stood on the draining board. Barlow had made Stella tea. Milky with one sugar. Jack caught his foot on something. A black bin bag spilled its contents on to the grass. He crouched down and stared, baffled. A picture of the Madonna and Child, several crucifixes. Signs. He got no satisfaction in being right.

The window panes above were blank and unheeding. Beyond them Jack visualized deeply cleaned rooms, no dirt, no stains; no proof of life. No proof. His imagination was at full pelt. What better way to dispose of incriminating evidence than get someone to do it for you? Then dispose of the cleaner.

He peered in through the glass of the sliding doors. On a wall beneath a clock was a picture. He cupped his hands around his face to block out reflection. It was a car. He made out a badge on the radiator. A Wolseley. The badge lit up when the engine was running. Stupid facts that Jack enjoying telling Stella. He racked his brains. When they were working on the Rokesmith case, Stella had explained the British vehicle registration system – facts her dad had told her. This car’s plate had the suffix ‘D’: 1966.

Nineteen sixty-six was the year Stella was born. On 6 May that year the Moors Murderers were tried and sentenced. On the same day Michael Thornton was killed in a hit and run at Young’s Corner. Forty-six years ago tomorrow.

A buzz in his pocket. At last Stella had texted. Following a lead. Will ring. Stella was not with Barlow. He exhaled deeply. Then he stiffened. Nothing in her text told him this. He didn’t need to see Barlow’s immaculate garden to know him. The man had a mind like his own; Jack knew him better than he knew himself. These were all signs that Barlow was capable of calmly executing revenge for the death of a small boy.

He rang Stella again. His heart was pounding louder than the rings. Answer!

‘Stella Darnell. Please leave a…’

Why didn’t she pick up? Surely Barlow wouldn’t kill Stella. She didn’t fit the victim profile. She hadn’t run over a child. But nor had Amanda. Stella was going to tell her police administrator friend to warn Joel Evans’s killer. Amanda had got in Barlow’s way and paid the price. Barlow would not spare Stella if she got in the way of his lifelong goal.

Jack strode up the street, past a delicatessen; a bicycle changed to a bollard was easy to steal. A sign on a lamp-post gave the number for crime prevention advice. He could ring it.

My friend is with a killer, he is…