The café was busy with office workers queuing for takeaways or holding huddled meetings at tables strewn with papers and laptops. Marian insisted on buying the coffees so Stella bagged a table near the door while she got them. An umbrella was propped against her chair, but there was no other indication the seats were taken so she sat down.
Stella felt the buzz of a text in her anorak. She had forgotten her meeting with Jackie. If she rang, Jackie would get the truth out of her. Stella looked about her. She recognized the place. She’d come here last year with another client. She should not make it a habit. A woman at the next table was engrossed in a paperback; a middle-aged man and a woman sat over a pile of croissants: neither was speaking or eating, they were looking out at the Broadway. Never fall in love, Stella resolved. Although being in love was better than falling foul of the law.
‘I used to manage the admin on our cases, but since my promotion, it’s less hands on, more’s the pity.’ Marian put down two mugs on the table. ‘I don’t judge, but faced with the frailty of human nature, it’s hard not to have a view. Trick is not to get jaundiced.’ The leather armchair squelched when she landed in it. She whacked a sachet of sugar against her mug, ripped off the end and showered granules over the chocolate on her cappuccino.
Stella was alive to threat in her innocuous words. The printout was in her rucksack at her feet. Marian knew. Stella tried to look nonchalant.
‘…life has a way of sorting itself… everything balances…’ Marian stirred in the chocolate and sugar and licked her teaspoon placidly.
‘So you think it’s right?’ Stella should keep the conversation light and get out as soon as possible. Recklessly she ploughed on. ‘Drivers who have killed a child committing suicide.’ She could not remember what Marian had actually said. It might be better to confess and get it over with.
‘I think people should face their punishments. Killing yourself is the soft way out.’ Marian Williams took a sip of her drink and smiled benignly. ‘You cleaned my desk.’
Reeling, Stella dimly recalled Jack saying that the best liars tell the truth most of the time. ‘I gave it a wipe.’
‘You have an eye for detail. Like your father. Do you do a lot of the cleaning? Martin says Clean Slate is very successful.’ Marian settled into her seat and contemplated Stella peaceably over the rim of her mug. She had a moustache of foam, but Stella could not tell her.
‘Only the important ones.’ Stella had not meant to flatter.
‘Terry said you take trouble, you miss nothing. Chip off the old block, he reckoned.’ At last Marian patted her mouth with a serviette. ‘He was proud of what you had accomplished, and impressed. He said he didn’t have a head for business; you got that from your mum. ’
‘Horses for courses,’ Stella quipped stupidly and picked up a tube of sugar, remembered she didn’t take sugar and put it back. She gulped her coffee. Terry would change his mind now. No amount of deep cleaning would salve her guilt. ‘Do you like your work?’ she countered. Any minute she would be frogmarched out.
‘I take pride in it, which is not the same as liking it.’ Marian shrugged. ‘I used to love it.’ She looked bleak for a moment. Stella guessed she was thinking about the husband.
A young man carrying a laptop case, a newspaper and a cardboard tray of coffees struggled along the queue. The bag swung out when he stuck out a leg to keep the door open and glanced against Marian’s shoulder, jolting her cup. She shot around. ‘Look where you’re going!’ She reddened and glared out of the window at the departing offender. ‘That’s what I mean,’ she fumed.
‘Are you all right?’ Stella asked. Marian Williams’s chair jutted out into the gangway so it could happen again. They should leave before it did.
‘You have taken in everything I told you.’ Marian watched the Broadway, two pink blotches on her cheeks.
‘Have I?’ Stella went cold.
‘People like that poor Hampson woman won’t accept their loved ones would give up and end their own lives. You saw how that gentleman was too cowardly to offer a simple apology. Imagine what he would do if he killed a child.’
‘What you said disturbed me, maybe that’s why I remembered.’ Lying came too easily. Marian was exaggerating; the laptop-bag man’s carelessness was not going to lead to death by dangerous driving.
‘They have no remorse.’
‘Odd they chose the same way to kill themselves. It’s not as if they knew each other.’ No mention of the printout so far. ‘Hampson and Lauren chose long straight roads like Marquis Way with no cameras or passers-by. There were two deaths in that street. Not an obvious way to commit suicide.’ She was a motormouth. Stella drank her coffee to stop herself. She was sailing right into a high wind.
Marian Williams placed her hand on Stella’s. Her touch light, but firm. ‘Don’t think about this, Stella. As your dad said, we try to make the world cleaner and brighter.’ She took away her hand and remarked: ‘I don’t recall saying anything about Marquis Way. Lauren was killed in Tolworth Street.’
Stella banged the tip of the umbrella on the floor. ‘In my job, you pick up stray facts.’ She lifted her mug to her mouth. It was empty so she pretended to drink. ‘I have a meeting in… in fact I’m late.’ She leapt up.
‘Perhaps Terry told you?’ Marian chatted on.
Stella took another sip from the empty mug to avoid another lie. Terry had never discussed his cases with her. She would not implicate him.
‘I miss my chats with Terry.’ Marian mopped up stray sugar with her napkin. ‘This has been nice.’
Marian did not know about the printout. In her relief, Stella was expansive. ‘We must meet for a meal.’
Marian had worshipped Detective Chief Superintendent Darnell, and for him she had worked tirelessly. Since he had died the pleasure in her job had died too. She would think it inconceivable that his daughter would enter the database. Stella did not believe it herself. Marian had a violent husband, and had lost her knight in shining armour. She wanted to impress Stella with nuggets of information, but Stella kept undercutting her, demonstrating she knew facts that were Marian’s to process, file and store up for a rainy day.
On rare visits to the police station as a child, Stella had occasionally experienced unfriendliness. A receptionist’s reluctance to tell her dad she had arrived; some who did not delight in the little girl clutching their boss’s hand. They all wanted a bit of Terry. She had never met Marian on those visits. Marian Williams had treated her with respect, even brought her flowers. Stella had abused her authority. The poor woman got enough of that at home. She sat down again and asked, ‘Could they have been murdered?’
There was a momentary lull in the shop, a silence with no correlation to external events into which her words landed. She looked about but no one appeared to have heard.
‘Why do you say that?’ Marian looked pleased to be consulted.
Jack would have seen that the trick was not to be clever. Stella lost her nerve. ‘My phone is ringing.’ Stella took refuge in her rucksack. In the comparative quiet there was no sound.
‘That’s an interesting idea. But who would murder them?’ Marian persisted.
Stella saw the text from earlier. Jack. He was still at her mother’s.
‘Sorry?’
‘Terry would say: “Who profits by a death?”’
‘The family of the child?’ Stella had not thought of this before.
‘So the families got together and killed these two men? Great idea, didn’t Agatha Christie do it? In reality it’s more difficult. No one would get away with it.’ Marian Williams picked up her bag. ‘Do answer your phone.’ She stood up.
Stella looked at the silent telephone in her hand.
‘It’s a text.’ She got to her feet.
‘Those crashes. Technically they were accidents.’ She patted her hair and stepped into the gangway. ‘I do what I can, but ultimately I’m powerless.’
Stella guessed Marian was thinking of her marriage. Sh
e was tempted to tell Marian about the green glass, but she mustn’t do so without talking to Jack. He had asked her not to. She pictured Marian in the toilet, confused and shocked, her arm a mass of purple. She opened the door for her.
Marian took Stella’s arm as they walked to the police station. Stella disliked the intimacy, but was glad that Marian wasn’t arresting her.
‘I would love to have a meal with you,’ Marian said.
‘How is your arm?’ Stella was voluble at the prospect of imminent freedom. She should not have mentioned the toilet incident. It was pointing up Marian’s own untruth.
‘I am sorry to have caused you bother.’ Marian let go of her arm.
‘If you need anything, call me.’ Marian would not call.
‘I will.’ Marian trotted up the steps and into the station without looking back.
Stella was getting into her van when she saw she was holding the umbrella from the café. She could return it, but was already late for Jackie. A horrible thought occurred. Marian Williams had seen her steal it. She knew Stella was a thief. If she left the umbrella at the front desk, Marian wouldn’t know; the deed was done. Stella tossed it into the back of the van. She was pulling out of the compound when she remembered Jack’s text. She stopped and, shielding the phone from the blinding sunshine, opened her Inbox:
Found what your mum lost.
51
Friday, 15 November 2002
The draught-excluding curtain was across the door so it would not open. Mary Thornton reached around and coaxed the fabric along the rail. She felt for the light switch. The bulb pinged. She left her bag by the umbrella stand and felt her way along the passage to where light showed under the living-room door.
‘Mum?’
The flickering light – her mum watched television in the dark – disorientated her. She waited to get her bearings.
Staring out of the muted set with dull expressionless eyes was the 1960s mug-shot of Myra Hindley. Mary stared back until the iconic image of Hindley was replaced by a prosaic shot of a sprawling building on a dark rainy night, its windows ablaze with light.
An ambulance came out of the entrance towards the camera and then swung out of the frame. A caption on the screen read: ‘LIVE: West Suffolk Hospital Statement.’ The camera cut to a reporter in a raincoat, collar up. Mary crossed the room and turned up the sound: ‘…can confirm that Myra Hindley, date of birth the twenty-third of July 1942, died in West Suffolk Hospital at 16.58 today, the fifteenth of November 2002, following respiratory failure. Myra Hindley was convicted of murder at the Chester Assizes Court on the sixth of May 1966 and was serving a whole life tariff. She had been in hospital since the twelfth of November…’
Mary switched the set off and, leaning over, plugged in the standard lamp. She had seen the newspaper headline at Stamford Brook station: ‘Myra Dead’. The news was no surprise.
Her mother was sitting on the sofa, lolling forward. Mary took in the scene in a series of stills. Pill bottle on the floor. Half-drunk bottle of Gilbey’s gin. A tumbler on its side in her lap. Fingers curled as if they still held the glass. One eye open, staring at the damp patch on her lap.
Mary walked out to the hall where her parents’ 1960s telephone had sat on the table designed for a phone and directories for over forty years. She dialled three numbers. The dial returned slowly to its rest position after each number.
Nine. Nine. Nine.
‘Ambulance. My mother’s taken an overdose of tranquillizers. Eighty-one British Grove.’ She laid down the receiver.
According to her watch it was five past ten; she wrote this down on her mother’s message pad with the stubby pencil attached to a string. That too had been there for four decades. No one left messages. The pad was blank.
Mary Thornton went back to the living room and looked at her mother. Mary did not need medical knowledge to see that this time – the third time to be precise – her mother had succeeded in killing herself.
Jean Thornton, a slight figure, was diminished further in the squashy oatmeal-coloured couch where she had spent most of the past years. She was a slow and steady drinker who never appeared drunk and would have slipped quietly from sobriety to death. Mary did not need to touch her to know her face would be as unyielding as marble. She contemplated putting the glass back in her mother’s drinking hand and getting rid of the bottle. It was her job to keep things tidy. But this was a mess that could not be tidied.
She went into the kitchen. The outside light was on. Michael’s swing stood in tall grass. The chains had tangled so the seat was at a funny angle and, in the watery moonlight, it appeared to be moving.
As before, there was no note – the wife of an insurance agent, her mother knew better – although she had no life insurance. They would pump her stomach to find the truth. A note would have been helpful. Why today, for example?
The powers that be would conclude that, still stricken by her boy’s death, Mrs Thornton could no longer live with the pain. Mary thought it a shame that Jean Thornton had died before Myra Hindley. She would have appreciated knowing about that. Or perhaps she had known.
‘That woman deserved to die.’
Her father’s brown leather briefcase dangled from one finger. It would only contain the local newspaper. He had been in the library all day. They kept up the fiction that he went to the office.
His raincoat was buttoned to his neck, the collar flat on his shoulders. He had combed his grey hair recently; the tooth grooves were visible. Before going to work he would rinse his metal comb under the kitchen tap and smartly make a straight side parting, flattening it with his palm. He would pass it to Michael. Michael’s hair would not obey the comb. Her dad never used Brylcreem; he said his clients would not trust him. She was a girl so she didn’t join in.
Mary could not see her father’s eyes behind his wire-framed spectacles, the lenses flashed in the kitchen light and it was herself she saw, worn and weary. Time had passed and Michael had been dead longer than he had been alive.
‘She didn’t mean to do it,’ she had said that last time, meaning to comfort.
‘Of course she did. She was evil. She never atoned for her crimes, or helped that kiddie’s mother. She never put her out of her misery. Now she will die never knowing the truth about her son. Hindley only cared about being released. She didn’t atone.’
‘Dad—’
‘We changed your name because of her. Myra was my mother’s name.’ He put his briefcase down. ‘She destroyed families. She destroyed our family.’
‘You never told me why.’ There, she had said it. He wasn’t listening. She had thought she had done something wrong. Mary. She had hated the name, but now it hardly mattered. Names, like people, came and went. She found she could change her name at the drop of a hat. She picked up the kettle; her mother had filled it. She switched it on.
Next to the saucer for spent tea bags was a scrap of paper. She unfolded it. The writing was her mother’s. She could only make out a ‘10/11’, which might be a date. The tenth of November. She knew that date, the pushy woman from the paper was on at her about that. ‘Do you know what this is?’ she said without thinking.
He snatched it off her and tossed it in the swing bin.
‘Dad, I don’t think you should…’ It was the nearest thing they had to a suicide note.
‘It’s rubbish.’
She could retrieve it later. She lifted down the Brooke Bond tea caddy from the cupboard. She would rather have a gin and tonic. ‘Have you been to the lounge?’ To some this would be a needless question. If he had been to the lounge he would have found her mother and his shock would say it all. Not her father – his feelings came out in other ways.
‘Dad, come and sit down, I’ll get you a cuppa.’ She unbuttoned his coat and lifted it from his shoulders. ‘There’s some people coming. I have bad news.’
‘Nothing can be bad with her dead and gone. What’s for tea?’
The bell was shrill and insistent. Like the d
ay when the police came to tell Bob and Jean Thornton that their favourite child was dead.
This time it was the woman her parents called Mary who answered the door.
52
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Stella slotted the van into the last bay on Margravine Road behind Barons Court Underground station and let herself into the redbrick mansion block. She pressed against the grille and peered up the dust-furred shaft. The lift was out of sight. Most residents – young couples and single professionals – were at work. Again she bit back frustration that Suzanne Darnell would not move to a place where she might meet people, be taken out of herself. Stella took the stairs. The flat door was ajar, she pushed it open.
She was in a brightly lit hall. So preoccupied had she been with the morning’s events that she had exited the stairwell at the wrong floor and wandered into the wrong flat.
The layout was identical to her mum’s, but instead of the fusty passage that no amount of cleaning could cheer, sunlight splashed through open doors on to a crimson runner. No flecks of paint or blackened varnish. The hallway, with no newspapers, was spacious and made more so by white-painted walls that, though yellowed with age, appeared fresh. Stella traced this impression to beeswax polish and a new non-toxic multi-surface lavender cleaner she was trialling. Whoever cleaned here knew what they were doing. A wild notion of recruiting them was interrupted when she came face to face with the drawing of the dog.
The black Labrador retriever sat beside a bowl half its size and a huge pot with a red flower, petals sticking out in an uneven circle. The background was a strict division of green for grass and blue for sky. The moulded picture frame was too grand for the child’s crayon drawing. Stella read the words, written in rounded lower case, ‘trixy and tulip. stella aged 6’.
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