‘Cashman.’ The voice was businesslike and not for the first time Martin Cashman, who was about the same age as Stella, reminded her of her father. Recently everyone was reminding her of Terry; he was haunting her. Again she thought of David Barlow, although he was actually nothing like her father. Younger, for a start.
‘Stella Darnell. You called me?’ Stella caught Jackie frowning. ‘How are you?’ She tried for more warmth.
‘Hey! Stella, great stuff. How are you?’
Detective Inspector Cashman had been promoted to Terry Darnell’s post of Detective Chief Superintendent at Hammersmith Police Station after Terry retired. Obliquely and without logic, Stella viewed him as having usurped her dad.
‘You left a message.’ She caught Jackie’s eye. ‘Fine, how are you?’
‘Ageing by the minute. Crock of the Walk, that’s me!’ The microphone picked up Cashman’s breathing. Like Terry he sounded fresh from jogging, which would not be the case. ‘I want your company.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve terminated our contract with the cowboys we were using. They went through every office leaving the dust intact.’ He laughed uproariously, then was conspiratorial. ‘I’ve had the go-ahead from the powers that be to commission direct. Clean Slate ticks all the boxes. No one else in the frame. We want you to clean the station.’
When she was fifteen Stella decided to give the police a wide berth. Her dad, overtaken by the Rokesmith murder, saw little of his teenaged daughter and she blamed the police. If Jackie had not been monitoring her call, Stella might have refused the job. But Jackie was right, Cashman had been kind after her dad’s death and it was not in Stella’s nature to turn down work.
A Mrs Marian Williams, Cashman’s civilian administrator, would email Jackie the details. Stella agreed to start the next morning at six with three shifts a week.
Jackie poured hot water from the kettle next to the photocopier into four ‘Clean Slate’ mugs. ‘You’ll need at least three operatives.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Stella was unwrapping the Rich Tea biscuits.
‘Ask Jack.’ Jackie fished out the tea bags, squeezed them and dropped them into a plastic takeaway tub. She added milk to each mug – more in Stella’s.
Clean Slate always had a staffing crisis – the work exceeded those available to do it and Jackie always found a solution. Since last year, her solution had been Jack Harmon.
‘He’s driving a late-night train.’ Stella congratulated herself on her prompt and plausible objection. Then she wondered why she had objected. She didn’t want to clean the station; there, more even than in his house, Terry would be hovering, highlighting her mistakes. Yet she had an objection. What little she did know about Jack warned her to think twice about letting him loose in a police station.
Beverly, the admin assistant, arrived and, ignoring the pile of work on her desk, settled down with her mug of tea. The day got under way.
Stella was still at her desk at six-thirty that evening when her mobile phone rang. She snatched it up, thinking of Jack; she had not phoned him.
‘I want a cleaner.’ Her mum had rung Clean Slate forgetting it was Stella’s company.
‘Mum, it’s me. Stella. Don’t worry. You’re confused.’
‘I’m not worried or confused. I want a cleaner. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Clean?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘When can he start?’
‘Who?’
‘Jack.’ Recently Suzie had been forgetful; it astounded Stella that she had total recall about a man she had met once.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘He did a super job last time. He got everywhere.’
There was no point in Stella saying that it had been she who had cleaned that evening because if it had been Jack he would have done a better job. She couldn’t remember why she hadn’t wanted him to go there and now, distracted by an email, this time she agreed.
As she was driving past Marks and Spencer’s on King Street Stella saw the witness appeal notice again and thought of the boy who had died there the day before. Joel Evans; she even remembered his name. It had rained heavily since then and the sandy stain on the camber had washed away.
11
Wednesday, 27 April 1966
Mary made a grab for the chain and pulled with all her might. Water thundered around the toilet bowl. She shrank back against the door, horrified by the crumpled lavatory paper dashing around and around. The water was rising and coming closer to the lavatory lid. The paper was still there. She shut her eyes and, her lips working rapidly, prayed to be saved. Her prayer was answered. With a hideous gurgle the water drained away and Mary pattered forward; she was relieved to see that the paper had disappeared. A new panic arose. Playtime was over. She was late.
She pulled at the bolt but it was stuck fast. She used both hands but could not get a grip; the sharp metal cut into her skin. She cast around the tiny cubicle for something to knock the bolt with but there wasn’t even a toilet brush like at home. The thought of home made things worse. She had no home.
The water was coming back. Mary shut her eyes and opened them. She was making it up. No, it was higher. It would stop, Mary told herself. It must stop. It was creeping to the top and not stopping. Mesmerized she fixed on the toilet as if she could work a spell. The words ‘Armitage Shanks’ were under water, the letters waving. The water was moving as if someone was stirring it with a giant spoon. It was getting closer and she couldn’t swim.
Mary reached up to pull the chain again, but then thought better of it because it would make more water. Her stomach churned. She teased Michael about his terror of falling down the toilet; now it was happening to her. She pulled and tugged and pushed on the bolt but it didn’t budge.
She heard a sound that chilled the heat in her cheeks. Liquid was spilling on to the tiles. It welled up to the rim of the toilet and seeped through the gap between the bowl and the seat. It took its time and gradually a puddle collected in a dip in the tiles and imperceptibly lapped towards her feet. Mary was helpless and when it touched the toes of her sandals could only stand on tiptoe, her back against the door.
‘Help! Get me out of here. I’m trapped. He-lp!’ Her shouts escalated to a scream.
Unlike Mary the water could escape. It flowed smoothly under the door like a snake going about its business. The toilet paper she had used when she peed floated out of the bowl and slopped down, soggy and twisted, one end like a fishtail in the gentle current. It shamed her.
The sibilant sounds of the cistern began as a whisper and then built in intensity.
‘I’m stuck!’ Her cries subsided and, defeated, she watched the veil of water slide over the rim.
Mary’s trance-like state was shattered by a hooter. She covered her head with her hands; the water was washing around her ankles.
Shouts from the playground. She had forgotten about the fire drill. First thing that morning, their teacher – Mary still did not know her name – had told the class that after playtime an alarm would sound and instead of filing back to the classroom, they must ‘congregate’ in the Sunken Garden for the register.
She heard guns and cannons; the booms and cracks were coming this way. If they peeped under the door they would see her sandals: she could not stand on the toilet. An explosion made her jump. Someone was thumping on the door.
‘Mary Thornton?’
She screwed up her eyes and didn’t answer.
‘Who’s in there?
‘Me,’ she admitted in a small voice.
‘Come out now!’ the voice ordered.
Mary grasped the bolt. It slid aside. Miss Crane, the headmistress, stood by the roller towel, water creeping towards her shoes.
‘So this is where you are hiding.’ She made a sweeping motion with her hand. Mary slunk out of the cubicle, treading through the welling tide.
‘I wasn’t hid—’
‘This is disappointing, Mary. The fire drill means w
e all do as we are told. You are the only one who has not. What if there had been a fire?’
‘I couldn’t get out.’ Mary spun around, splattering the woman’s tights. Water had reached the sinks and was stealing under the doors of the other cubicles. ‘I would have burnt alive,’ she said.
‘Don’t be rude.’ Miss Crane ushered her towards the door. ‘What a story. No trouble getting out when I called, I see!’
‘It’s not a story! It happened.’
‘Please don’t answer back.’ Miss Crane propelled Mary with a hand on the back of her neck. ‘Given that you are new, I’ll draw a line under this incident.’
Mary shrugged the hand away. ‘It happened.’
‘Everyone has been looking for you, wasting their time while you were hiding.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘What did I say about answering back?’ She made an arch with her arm by the door. ‘You have caused enough trouble. Go on back to your class.’
‘You’re answering me back.’ People had to answer if someone spoke. Mary stood immobile on the puddling floor.
‘That’s enough!’
Miss Crane yanked her around and swooped close with peppermint breath. ‘If it wasn’t for your sweet brother, I might consider asking your mummy and daddy to remove you. This is not a school for liars.’
I am not a liar!
The scene was in Technicolor. Mary grabbed at the bun and got a chunk of grey hair in her fist. She hauled Miss Crane to the overflowing toilet – the wet floor made it easy. Her legs stuck out of the cubicle like a doll’s. Mary jammed Miss Crane’s head into the toilet and pressed hard into her neck, keeping out of the way of the kicking doll’s legs. She stuffed toilet paper around the doll’s head and pulled the chain. Miss Crane was flushed away.
‘Blimey, what’s gone on here?’ Mary recognized the man with the mop. ‘I should have brought me rubber ring!’
‘I’m afraid we’ve had a flood.’ Miss Crane kept her hand on Mary’s neck.
‘The stopcock’ll have gone. I said they all need doing. ’Fraid these will be out of order for the rest of the day.’
When she edged out past him, he winked at Mary.
‘Miss Crane, it’s County Hall.’ The woman from behind the typewriter was waving a note. Miss Crane took it, read it and walked away down the corridor with the woman. She must have forgotten about Mary.
The little girl waited until both women were out of sight.
The man came out of the toilets. ‘You OK?’
‘I was locked in.’
‘Those bolts are a devil. There’s a knack: lift as you slide.’
Mary’s sandals squelched on the floor, leaving a trail of damp footprints. Her plan was taking shape.
12
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Stella left the van in St Peter’s Square to avoid Terry’s neighbours, although in over a year she hadn’t met one. The petrol gauge was on empty; she would fill up at the garage on King Street on her way to her flat. She was parked outside a house that had belonged to a client who had died last year. The area was peopled with ghosts; not that Stella believed in them. She observed with disapproval that the new owners had replaced Mrs Ramsay’s 1960s black and white curtains in the dining room with wooden blinds. Jackie had suggested Stella drop a leaflet in for the new owners but Stella was not keen to clean a house when she had known the previous occupant. Jack had said this was because she was fond of Mrs Ramsay. To prove him wrong, Stella resolved now that she would return with a leaflet and put it through the brass letterbox, which even from the street she could see was in need of a buff.
She punched in Terry’s alarm code; the beeping stopped and she caught the chimes of the church clock striking ten.
She opened the basement door, this time switching on the light and, feigning confidence, stomped down the stone steps.
She avoided the photograph wall but still had the conviction that her many faces were watching her. She was haunting herself.
The blue folder was on the table where she had left it. This mildly surprised her, as if Terry might have filed it away in her absence. She sat down and directed the lamp down. She properly examined each photograph. Some were of roads stretching away. She had already fathomed that photographs labelled for example with ‘3a’ or ‘3b’ were of the same road as the first photograph labelled simply with a ’3’. They were close-ups of features in the same street: a tree trunk, a telegraph pole. There were only two prints in the file with one number, these were ‘1’ and ‘4’.
She could see nothing new and was beginning to think there was nothing to see when on the photograph labelled ‘5b’ in Terry’s handwriting she spotted something by the kerb. She looked closer and made out a witness appeal notice. It was an older version of the one in King Street marking where Joel Evans had been killed, but like that one it was anchored by sand bags draped over the cross bars that, with the poor quality printing, looked even more like Jack’s piglets. She tried to read the writing on the notice, but it was too small.
She flicked through the photographs but found no others with boards or anything that gave an indication of the date the picture was taken. It was late and she was cleaning the police station in the morning; she should go back to her flat. Yet she was sure she was on to something. Jack was the one person who she could be sure would be awake at this hour. She had to hope he wasn’t driving his train or he wouldn’t answer. In the subterranean chamber there was no signal. She gathered up the folder and ran upstairs to the hall. In the thin light from the intermittent lamp-post across the street, vaguely aware of Terry in the shadows overseeing her every move, Stella dialled Jack Harmon’s number.
Two rings and then it went to voicemail. The abruptness of the switchover made her suspect Jack had cut the line. Had he broken his promise about his night-time business? This was why she didn’t want him anywhere near a police station. She was about to hang up when she changed her mind and left a message: ‘Jack. Me. I’ve got a job for you.’ She paused, then added: ‘A cleaning job.’ She grimaced; she liked to see a person’s reaction when she was talking to them. She had forgotten to tell Jack about the case.
Still holding the blue folder she went out and double-locked the door. She hurried around to St Peter’s Square and clambered into the van. She turned on the engine and glanced up at Mrs Ramsay’s house – she would always think of it as Mrs Ramsay’s – and thought of Jackie’s idea about the leaflet. She opened the glove box and found the stash of flyers kept in all Clean Slate vans. She was startled by her phone blaring through the van’s speakers. The caller’s name flashed up on the dashboard screen.
Jack Mob.
She pressed the ‘pick up’ button on the steering wheel. She loved her new van’s gadgets.
‘You’ve got a cleaning job for me,’ Jack said in a hushed voice.
‘Why are you whisp— Oh, never mind. Yes. No.’
‘Great that you’re clear. I love that.’
‘I mean it’s not cleaning.’ She paused. ‘It’s a case.’
‘A detective job?’
‘Probably nothing.’
‘But you think it’s probably something.’ Jack’s voice was hardly audible.
Stella stuffed the flyers back in the glove box and picked the blue folder up from the passenger seat. ‘Yes. I think it is,’ she said, opening it at the first photograph.
‘See you in the morning, then.’
The light on the dashboard went out.
13
Thursday, 28 April 1966
‘Hurry up, Michael. We’ll be late and it won’t be you in trouble.’ Mary used her mother’s imperatives.
‘Are we going to the park?’ Michael wrestled his arm from her grasp. ‘Let go, you are hurt-ing me. I’m com-ing any-way.’ His Lost in Space robot voice.
‘No. We are going home.’ Mary snatched at Michael but he broke free and hopped and skipped about in front of her.
‘All-firm-ative’, he croaked, in hazy im
itation.
Mary snatched his flapping shirt-tail. There was the sound of ripping fabric and both children were brought up short.
‘You’ve torn it,’ Michael wailed.
‘It was your fault, you should have behaved.’ Mary could not see Clifford Hunt; if he was not at the swings she had lost him. She pinched Michael’s arm. ‘Keep up.’
‘This isn’t the way home.’ Michael pointed back towards the first railway arch. ‘It’s that way.’ Then, ‘I’ll have to tell Mummy about my shirt. She’ll see.’
‘You did it playing football.’
‘Then I’ll be in trouble.’
‘Carry on like this and we’ll be late and Br’er Fox will get you.’
This silenced Michael. Mary’s truncated telling of Tar-Baby, an Uncle Remus story read to her class at her old school, had instilled in Michael the vivid possibility that like Br’er Rabbit he would be stuck to his teddy bear coated in strawberry jam and be gobbled up by the fox. Mary knew to use the threat sparingly to maintain potency.
There was no one at the swings. She yanked Michael past the paddling pool and the sandpit where some younger children were playing: all girls, no Clifford. One of them shouted out Michael’s name and he waved enthusiastically at them. Mary pushed him on and veered down the dark path beneath the railway arches.
‘You said we weren’t going to the slide.’ Michael spoke more to himself than his sister.
Clifford Hunt wasn’t at the slide or on the roundabout. He was too old for roundabouts, but Mary had seen him there with older boys in black blazers, smoking cigarettes. The last arch was closed off with a gate. A ring of plastic barriers was in the middle of the path. It surrounded a patch of drying concrete on which was engraved a heart pierced with an arrow. Mary’s own heart was thumping. Letters had been carved into the heart: ‘M. T.’ Clifford had done it. The letters looked new, so he must be hiding in the bushes. She felt the fizzing in her stomach that happened on Christmas Eve or every leap year on her real birthday.
Clifford loved her as much as she loved him.
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