Ghost Girl

by Thomson, Lesley

  ‘Barlow killed the drivers.’ As he said this Jack felt something was not right.

  ‘David hasn’t killed anyone,’ Stella stormed. ‘What were you doing at his house?’

  ‘Looking for you.’ He could not say he was worried about her. Stella would tell him she could look after herself. In a way she’d be right. Jack blinked to clear the fog in his head. He had missed something. ‘There’s a picture of a Wolseley in his kitchen, a grey saloon like the one the police were looking for. Then there’s the green glass.’ He wasn’t listening to the words, his mind racing. David Barlow wasn’t seeking revenge. He snatched at the air with a hand as if he might catch the answer.

  ‘It’s David’s first car.’ Stella gripped her umbrella under her arm like a rifle. ‘He was eighteen and the green glass is for his wife’s grave, I told you.’ She fired her umbrella at the model. ‘This is Marian’s patch. Extraordinary that she made this.’

  ’Who’s Marian?’ The mental fog was clearing.

  ‘You know! My friend at the station. She didn’t turn up at Dukes Meadows. I was trying to tell you. She lives here. It’s the weirdest coincidence. The Thorntons moved to this godforsaken place after British Grove, Lucie May said. That’s why I was here. I rang Marian and got Cashman, he gave me the same address.’

  ‘Your friend Marian didn’t meet my Host when she brought you flowers that night for the simple reason she was my Host.’

  Stella said nothing. He ploughed on.

  ‘She didn’t connect me to you or…’ He couldn’t bring himself to say that Williams would have killed Stella.

  Stella folded her arms. ‘Or she would have murdered me.’

  ‘Marian and Mary, they are the same person.’ Jack felt his way as it fell into place. ‘Odd I didn’t see the flowers.’ He had seen them. The lilies he had squashed near the grave of Stephen Parsons. His Host had misled him. Clever.

  ‘Marian is not a killer.’ Stella said in a monotone. Jack noticed she had not mentioned Barlow. It was as if she had not heard what he had said.

  ‘Bear with me. Marian Williams lied to you about what Amanda said when she came to the police station.’

  ‘Marian is law-abiding.’ Stella restored a grit bin near the remains of Barons Court Station and repositioned a number 27 bus passing St Paul’s Church on the Broadway. ‘She doesn’t have brothers and sisters. She told me.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, that’s true. Her brother is dead.’ Jack straightened a lamp standard on Glenthorne Road. ‘The need to avenge Michael’s death is eating away at her.’ The woman who had taken his street atlas was after all a True Host. He had wanted his A–Z back. He couldn’t explain to Stella that he had intended to keep his promise to her: it sounded silly. Then he had seen the photograph of the family in the bedroom and got the feeling of dread he knew was a sign. Once he’d met the old man in the attic of streets, he hadn’t been able to leave.

  ‘Stay there!’ He crept into the passage. His Host’s – Mary’s – bedroom door was shut. He turned the handle. The room was as before. Neatly made bed, coffin wardrobe, bedside table with a full glass of water. No one there. Jack took the photograph.

  ‘There.’ He thrust it at Stella. ‘The Thorntons, in happier times. Douglas Ford told me that Michael Thornton had a sister and Jackie has just confirmed it, she was at school with the sister. Her name was Mary. You know her as Marian.’

  ‘Not that happy.’ Stella tilted the picture to the light. ‘Only the boy’s smiling.’ She paused. ‘Michael Thornton was beautiful.’ Beautiful was not one of Stella’s words; she went for understatement.

  Jack looked again at the family. The father blurred, intent on being in the picture before the shutter snapped. His wife looking off camera as if preoccupied, perhaps envisioning what tragedy lay ahead. Like an angel. ‘It’s as if the sister was blotted out. There’s no reference to her in articles about the death and Lucie never mentioned her. Why? And why has this Mary changed her name to Marian?’

  ‘Marian would not do anything illegal,’ Stella intoned as if she hadn’t heard him.

  ‘She said Amanda Hampson had found out about Charlie passing his advanced driving test. Yet the police already knew. This is what Amanda actually showed her.’ He unfolded the torn Parkinson’s Disease Society letter he had found in Amanda’s temple. ‘I made a mistake. I thought Amanda had saved this to show Martin Cashman, but in fact she did show the administrator this and Marian Williams realized it was a vital piece of evidence. It was, as Amanda said, the missing jigsaw piece. Marian knew it too.’

  Stella read out loud: ‘“Change attitudes, find a cure, join us…”’

  ‘Read the back.’

  ‘“The fifteenth of March, eleven p.m., Marquis Way W6. Porphyrion”. Then pounds signs and exclamation marks.’ Stella flicked the letter with her index finger. ‘Charlie Hampson must have been excited. At school we were told to be sparing with exclamation marks. Why didn’t Marian tell me this?’

  Jack watched Stella. She was flittering about with the model, righting fallen masonry, signs. Clearing up. ‘She was worried you’d spot the pattern of deaths. What she didn’t know was that you had already spotted it. Or Terry had.’

  ‘Marian worshipped my dad. She would have wanted to help him, not commit crimes herself.’ Stella continued her repair work. ‘Even revenge for a brother wouldn’t make her break the law.’

  Jack listened for the front door closing far below. The house creaked and groaned as if someone was moving stealthily closer. ‘I think Terry suspected her. He never showed her the blue folder.’ He tried to master his nerves.

  ‘If Amanda Hampson hadn’t fallen, she would have told you what she really said,’ Stella persisted. ‘She would have got hold of Cashman eventually and Marian would have been found out. Surely she wouldn’t take the risk.’

  ‘Our killer takes risks. We worked that out.’ He should tell her about the crawl space: it was a means of escape if they needed it. ‘Besides, she covered herself. Amanda didn’t fall. Marian visited her that evening and killed her.’

  ‘I know I’m not famed for insight, but this is wrong. Marian wants to make a difference. She loves her job; she is not a cold-blooded murderer.’ Stella thudded her umbrella tip on the floorboards in time to her words.

  ‘As Mary she is making a difference. She is murdering reckless and unrepentant drivers who kill boys like her brother.’ He paused and looked at Stella. ‘I think you’re insightful.’ Jack felt himself reddening. Stella had seen what he sometimes felt about her. She never failed to surprise him.

  Stella was reading the torn letter. ‘Porphyrion! I’ve heard of that.’

  ‘Porphyrion Insurance. Leonard Bast, the man in Howards End who lost his umbrella.’ He indicated Stella’s umbrella. ‘Leaving Porphyrion led to Leonard’s death. Porphyrion has lured these drivers to their deaths, no doubt with the promise of money. I heard her on the phone.’ The murmured voice on the landing, just feet from him. Jack brushed loose plaster off his new tunnel, dimly pleased that it had survived the onslaught. ‘Marian Williams – or Mary – relies on her victims not being Forster fans. Greed guarantees they will meet her at a late hour, even on a Sunday, on a secluded road.’ He took the paper from Stella. ‘Impatient, they speed along the long straight roads. She steps out. They swerve. Bang! Mary Thornton melts into the night.’

  ‘When Martin told her I had found Mrs Hampson’s body, she looked odd. I guessed she was jealous it was me and not her.’

  ‘She saw the net closing in.’

  As if viewing the landscape from an aeroplane, Jack saw muted patterns like archaeological remains invisible from the ground. Spelling Way, Tolworth Street, Britton Drive. The missing buildings had altered perspectives, creating new views across the city. He caught a glint, like the glowing blue dot that had led him to Stella. It was not a GPS signal. He raked among the debris. A green glass chip. He moved efficiently around the miniature version of Hammersmith and found more. ‘She’s marked each death
on her father’s model,’ he said quietly.

  Stella peered at the remains of Marquis Way. ‘There’re three chips. That’s wrong; there were only two deaths there: Paul Vickery and Harvey the shoe man.’

  Jack could feel Stella’s detachment. They were not working together. He looked at the model. Glass chips were glued to the pavement beside the wasteland on Marquis Way. They were as big as boulders in the road.

  ‘It’s another new murder site.’ He breathed. ‘We have the deaths for every photograph and an extra one in Spelling Way which we think is where she’ll kill Joel Evans’s driver.’ He shifted a skip blocking the entrance to a defunct industrial unit..

  ‘David is meeting Porphyrion tonight, that’s how I’ve heard of it!’ Stella gasped. ‘He asked me if a person could be forgiven for killing a child. I thought he meant Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.’ She paced the room, seemingly oblivious to the blood. ‘He said it was like in the book. I assumed he was referring to the Bible.’

  Jack saw it. ‘I’m being stupid! David Barlow isn’t the killer.’

  ‘I could have told you that.’

  ‘He was the first driver.’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’ Stella had gone pale.

  ‘He killed Michael Thornton. Stella, somehow Marian has found out about David Barlow.’ Jack couldn’t look at her. He could not bear her pain. ‘The book was Howards End. If Barlow knows Porphyrion isn’t real, he might not go.’

  ‘This is his car.’ She held up a bright orange Ford Fiesta.’

  Jack had not seen the car on the model before, it was new. But he had seen it before. It was the car that pulled up for petrol when he was in the garage talking to Douglas Ford. The man had gone sheet-white as if he had seen a ghost. He had seen a ghost. Barlow had been standing behind Jack in the shop. His face had haunted Douglas Ford for forty-six years. After Jack’s questions, Ford must have believed Barlow had come for him. Jack understood why all the other cars on the model were grey. ‘Grey was the colour of the car seen leaving King Street the day Michael was run over.’ It was a sign. Mary did have a mind like his own.

  ‘David knew about Michael Thornton’s sister. He said she was called Myra. Her parents changed her name after the Moors Murderers were caught so she wouldn’t be teased. He was worried that the girl who saw the car hit Michael would never forget it.’ Stella spoke like a robot.

  ‘He was worried the girl would not forget him. The police only knew it was a grey saloon. Douglas Ford was the sole witness and he knew never told anyone that Mary was there. Only the driver could have known that a girl witnessed the accident. Mary Thornton told her parents she was making the tea.’

  ‘None of this makes sense.’ Stella’s voice was hollow. Jack could see that it was making sense.

  ‘When Marian, or whatever she’s called, rang this afternoon she said Dukes Meadows wasn’t far from me. I had said I was at a client’s house. She knew where I was.’ Stella was pale, her eyes unblinking, the pupils dark.

  ‘We led her to David Barlow. I think Marian was there that night on Marquis Way when we hid behind Wilkins Laundry. She wouldn’t have recognized the van then, but she’s seen it many times since.’ The railway lines were exposed where his newly constructed tunnel had split open; everywhere he looked was displaced street furniture. A telephone junction box was ripped from the ground, tiny wires tangling. ‘Spotting clues, cross-checking the database, consulting files, it’s her job. She learnt from Terry.’

  ‘David was burgled,’ Stella said tonelessly. ‘His wife made him go to the police station.’

  ‘Then he will be on the database. Unwittingly we helped Mary Thornton find the man she’s wanted to kill for most of her life. She left Aldensley Road here because it’s where her brother’s killer lives. Somehow we led her there. What car does she drive?’

  Stella shook her head. ‘A Mini, I think.’

  ‘There was a Mini parked near your van outside the cemetery this afternoon. It pulled away when we did. She trailed you to Barlow’s and recognized him.’

  ‘Why should she think he ran over her brother?’

  ‘She probably didn’t, but if it were me, I’d run a check on him and then I’d discover that he once owned a grey Wolseley and sold it after the accident.’ Still something wasn’t right. Jack didn’t voice the nagging doubt.

  ‘David wasn’t burgled. I found the stuff under the bath. He believes his wife was punishing him.’

  ‘Sounds like she set him up. Faked a theft and then made him walk into the police station to report it. A place he’d avoided for decades. She knew he was too cowardly to confess. No wonder he’s got you deep cleaning. You’re expunging the first Mrs Barlow.’ He was hot with sudden anger.

  Stella glanced at the door. He turned too. It was open, but the light in the corridor was out; the bulb had blown. The darkness was intense, suspended. They should leave.

  ’David’s not a killer.’ Stella was stony-faced.

  ‘No? He killed a boy forty-odd years ago and drove on. The man who killed Joel Evans confessed. So did Charlie Hampson, although probably he had no choice. Barlow never has. He’s put the Thornton family through torture. Pure evil.’ Overtaken by rage, Jack spat the words.

  Stella’s eyes flashed. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  Yes, he had ‘changed his tune’. Stella had not refused to take Barlow’s calls as she had his.

  Stella looked at her watch. ‘It’s half ten. In an hour and a half it’ll be the sixth of May. While we stand here arguing, Marian is going to kill David!’

  And he wanted her to stop calling him ‘David’. Jack blew dust out of the District line tunnel. It was beyond repair.

  ‘I’m calling the police.’ Stella pulled out her phone.

  ‘To say what? One of their valued employees – whose father is critically ill in hospital – is going to commit murder. We have bags of green glass and pictures of long straight roads that prove it? Not forgetting information obtained illegally from their database. Cashman will tell you to stick to the day job. Or worse.’

  ‘We have to warn David before it’s too late.’

  Jack swept grit off Hammersmith flyover. ‘You know, I don’t really mind if we are too late.’

  He looked up. Stella had gone.

  72

  Saturday, 5 May 2012

  The house in Aldensley Road was in darkness. No orange car. Jack jumped out before Stella braked. There was no sign of him by the time she got to the front door. She leant on the doorbell. She frowned at the Big Ben chimes.

  She ran down the side alley and found Jack tugging at the patio door.

  ‘Can you open this?’

  ‘You’re the one who breaks into houses.’ She was crisp.

  ‘Don’t you have a key? The man’s your client.’

  ‘No, David was always here.’

  Compared to the afternoon when the kitchen had been richly warm with spring sunshine and the scent of freshly mown grass on the breeze mingling with David Barlow’s aftershave, to Stella it now resembled a dark, uninviting cave. She shone her torch through the window. The beam reflected in the polished glass and only a dim glow penetrated. A spark of light caught the electric clock and another bounced off the photograph of the car. Gradually appliances and cupboards, table and chairs took shape.

  She shone the torch across the garden and began to tremble. The chairs had been put away; the table was a solitary object beneath the tree. David had put the chairs out for the tea. Three chairs. She shivered.

  ‘What was he wearing?’ Jack’s voice out of the gloom made her start.

  ‘I can’t remember. Trousers, um…’

  ‘Funny that.’ Jack’s voice was metallic. ‘Did he have that on?’ He nodded at the glass.

  Stella directed the torch at the door again. The jacket she had found under the bath was on the back of a chair. She told Jack about finding it. As she did so, she felt the truth of what he had said. David had killed Michael Thornton. And he had worn
the jacket that day. Somehow Jennifer Barlow had known and she had hidden first the jacket upstairs under the bath and later the pictures and the crucifix under the downstairs bath, a punishment that was long and slow. He had unintentionally made a false insurance claim. Stella didn’t need to check to know that the insurance company would be the same one that Robert Thornton had worked for. Mrs Barlow had implicated her husband in a lesser crime than driving away from the scene of an accident and forced him to deal with the police. Jack said David had tortured the Thorntons; his wife had tortured him. Drip on drip. Her death didn’t release him. David wanted Stella to set him free.

  She rang David’s phone again. The kitchen lit up with a bluish tinge.

  ‘It’s his phone.’ Jack moved closer to her.

  She watched David’s handset judder across the counter, propelled by the vibration, and turn an inexorable circle. At the edge it tipped off and hit the floor, a muffled splintering audible through the double glazing. The ringing in Stella’s phone ceased.

  There was a scrape on the gravel. Stella swallowed a yelp. A figure emerged from behind the water butt. Marian Williams. Stella’s legs went to jelly. She was holding something. A gun. They were in point-blank range.

  ‘Can I help?’ It wasn’t Marian.

  ‘We were looking for Mr Bar—’ Stella began.

  Jack cut in. ‘David invited us for an aperitif but we’re a little late. Or it’s the wrong day!’ He put on his ‘Lucille May’ charm.

  It was a bicycle pump. Equally lethal in the wrong hands.

  ‘Dave’s gone out.’ The woman swung the pump down.

  ‘Did he say where?’ Jack took Stella’s hand, probably intending the neighbour to think them the epitome of a happy couple. He was wearing Terry’s gloves, which absurdly heartened her.

  ‘Pub by the river – what’s it called? An animal. The Ram, that’s it. He said Jennifer would be pleased. Bless her, Jennifer was difficult to please. Dave didn’t put a foot wrong, but she still found fault. I never speak ill of the dead, but how he managed all those years with her on at him every turn… That man was a flippin’ angel.’