The Detective's Secret

by Thomson, Lesley

  Stella despaired of having an ordinary conversation with Jack. Although the name was familiar, so perhaps she had seen it. Terry had taken a photograph of the Commodore on fire when it was being demolished: she did remember that.

  Stella reproached herself for her impatience. Jack had seen a man die; she should cut him some slack. If he believed this was a case, she would go along with it. But despite William Frost coming via Jackie, Stella did not trust him.

  ‘If Tallulah was alive she’d be a hundred now.’ Jack glanced at his watch. ‘Goodness, I’m on the Underground in one hour, forty-three minutes and fifty seconds. Come on!’ He stuffed the street atlas in his coat and jumped up.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Stamford Brook station. I’ll show you where Rick Frost died.’

  18

  October 1987

  The quarry moved along Burlington Lane. He kept a distance of ten metres, already composing his report for the unit. A woman in a black coat and high-heeled boots and a black handbag is walking fast along…

  Simon’s mother was visiting Mrs Henderson, the lady with the fishpond and a hundred knitted animals. She always gave him cake when he went too, but his mum said he was to stay at home with his sister because when he was working, his father forgot she was there.

  ‘She usually comes with us.’

  ‘No she doesn’t.’ She squirted perfume on her wrists. This lie had made it easy to steal her wedding ring from the lacquered box with the tiger’s face. As soon as she had gone, Simon grabbed his mac from the rack and rushed after her.

  She was crossing at the lights, the wrong way for Mrs Henderson’s.

  He could catch up and demand to know where she was going, but she would lie. Simon admitted to himself that she had been lying to him since he left Marchant Manor and was back living at home.

  Traffic on the Great West Road slowed to a stop; a girl was staring at him from the back seat of a car. Simon smiled at her. She poked out her tongue and ducked out of sight. Simon stopped. Then the lights changed and the car moved off. When he looked again, the pavement was empty. He had lost his mother.

  The tide was out. Disconsolate and unwilling to go home, Simon crossed the causeway to the eyot and, scrambling up the bank, slumped against the trunk of a weeping willow. He looked back at Chiswick Mall through the reeds. There was no one about. Stuffing his hands in his mac pockets to keep warm, Simon felt something. Her ring. Since stealing it, guilty and ashamed, Simon had put it out of his mind. He held it to the sky: there were letters engraved on the inside, ‘Vita Nuova’. This didn’t make sense. His mother was called Madeleine not Vita.

  Obscurely, this unfamiliar name convinced Simon that he had been tracking the wrong woman. His real mother would be eating cake with Mrs Henderson. If the ring belonged to someone called Vita, why was it in her drawer?

  At his feet was a white stone, smooth as if polished by water. Inchoate with emotion, the boy snatched it up and, stepping across the clearing to a gap in the reeds, he hurled it as hard as he could into the river.

  The front door was opened as he scratched his key at the lock.

  ‘Where have you been?’ She was wearing the National Trust apron he had bought her for her birthday.

  ‘I went to see Mrs Henderson.’ A master stroke. He stared at her, unblinking.

  A clock ticked in the living room; somewhere his sister was laughing.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She wasn’t looking at him.

  ‘I had banana cake.’ Tell me I can’t have. You were there, you didn’t see me. Say it!

  ‘Simon, we agreed you’d stay here. I left Mrs Henderson early and went shopping.’ She was walking away from him. ‘Sweet of you to go, but tell me next time. I do love her banana cake!’

  ‘Actually it wasn’t banana, it was a Victoria sponge.’ Demons urged him on.

  ‘We’re eating in five minutes,’ she said as if to no one.

  In the bathroom, Simon ran the gold ring over the fingers of his bad hand, his special trick. It was lighter than a coin. He told himself that his mum had been at Mrs Henderson’s and then gone shopping. Next time he would give her ring to the Captain and say his mother’s name was Vita. Next time he would lead the unit to the tower.

  19

  Monday, 21 October 2013

  ‘There was a man of double deed,

  Who sowed his garden full of seed;

  When the seed began to grow,

  ’Twas like a garden full of snow.’

  Jack’s voice was amplified under the railway bridge. The wind had got up since they’d been in the Ram; it funnelled under the bridge, smacking Stella’s hair across her face and flattening the dog’s ears to his head. A train clattered above, wheels clunking on the tracks. Stella tugged the dog’s lead to chivvy him, for the grey-encrusted pavements implied that, prompted by the racket, pigeons roosting on the girders might shit on them. It would not be a sign of luck.

  Jack skipped out of the way as a straggle of late commuters came out of Stamford Brook station. Stella’s acute sense of smell identified a mixture of scents and body odours and she hurried after Jack into the ticket hall.

  ‘Single to Barons Court. Please.’

  Stella was nine when she had made her first solo journey on the Underground. Terry had been called to a job, so she had to return by herself to the flat her mum had rented since their separation. Terry had folded a ten-shilling note into her purse with the lion motif and, crouching, patted her down and stroked her cheek with his thumb as if she was crying. She must not talk to strangers, she must be polite to anyone in uniform, even if they were strangers, and she must keep away from the edge of the platform.

  ‘It will be an adventure!’ He had tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘I wish you were coming.’

  ‘Next time, Stell. We’ll go to Upminster and back!’

  Perhaps to sweeten the dull misery of access weekends, Terry told his daughter he would grant her three wishes – proper wishes, not things like wanting to fly or live with him and her mum like ‘before’. Since these were her greatest wishes, Stella generally plumped for an ice-cream sundae at the Wimpy Bar or feeding ducks in the park, which was really for babies. The last time she had seen Terry alive, he asked if she remembered the wishes. She hadn’t. The station brought them back. Too late. Terry was dead. No amount of wishes changed that.

  Art deco glass lampshades hanging from the ceiling cast a washed-out light over the ticket hall. In 1975 it had been dingy and grim, and bristled with the possibility of bad people that her dad worked long hours to put away.

  She heard a popping; Stanley jerked the lead. It came from a photo booth by the entrance. The curtains were shut; she couldn’t see legs beneath. It was an odd time to get your photo taken, she thought. Stanley growled.

  ‘Ssssh!’ In here a bark would be deafening. She snatched him up and stroked him to distract him. Jack had started his chanting again:

  ‘When the snow began to melt,

  ’Twas like a ship without a belt;

  When the ship began to sail,

  ’Twas like a bird without a tail.’

  He flourished his pass and swiped them through the barriers. ‘This way!’

  ‘I must pay,’ Stella protested.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere.’ Jack was running up a wide staircase. ‘It happened at six minutes past twelve, later than tonight,’ Jack said when she joined him on the platform. ‘There’re three more trains after that. He used his Oyster card, he didn’t buy a ticket.’

  ‘Why bother, if he wasn’t going anywhere.’ Stella frowned at her quip. If an inspector asked to see her ticket, she didn’t want to explain she was looking at where a man had killed himself.

  Jack broke into her thoughts. ‘A single or return ticket might have indicated his state of mind.’

  Suicide wasn’t an option, but if it were, Stella would approach it like cleaning. Clear the decks, identify materials and equipment, allow for the unexpected
– damp, cockroaches or cancelled trains. An Oyster card saved money; even if there was to be no future to save it for, she would factor it in.

  ‘An Oyster card says business as usual. It might mean he didn’t expect to die.’ Stella looked across to the eastbound platform where that afternoon she had waited as a child, avoiding the gaze of strangers. It was deserted now. Then she had been fearful of forgetting to get off at the right station or sitting next to a stranger. Most of all she had fretted that her mum would be cross that Terry had let her travel alone. That came true; Suzie still referred to how he had ‘abandoned his daughter’.

  The announcement board above their heads was blank and dark as Jack said it had been the night Frost died. It was a risk to let a child travel alone on the Underground. Terry had trusted her and she had justified that trust.

  Trains still went from Stamford Brook to Barons Court, but her mum was on the other side of the world and Terry was dead. Stella pulled herself together.

  ‘You said Frost was standing still, then he ran. Sounds like a snap decision. Sit!’ Stanley was straining towards the end of the station, an area of darkness beyond the staircase balustrade. Dogs weren’t like children, she couldn’t warn Stanley about live rails or strangers.

  ‘He’s sensed Frost’s ghost,’ Jack observed.

  ‘Or he’s smelled a food wrapper.’ The case was thin enough without Jack introducing the supernatural. She could smell aftershave, no doubt lingering in the air from a passenger; there was no one but themselves on the platform. ‘Besides, didn’t you say he died up there?’ She pointed in the opposite direction.

  ‘He broke into a run, then swerved off.’ Jack walked along the platform. ‘Right here.’ He crossed to the outer side, perilously close to the edge.

  ‘Jack!’ The dog was still pulling on the lead. Dogs were meant to make the owner feel protected. His behaviour was freaking her out.

  ‘Before he jumped, he looked at me.’ Jack was on his haunches. He continued to recite:

  ‘When the bird began to fly,

  ’Twas like an eagle in the sky;

  When the sky began to roar,

  ’Twas like a lion at the door.’

  In the empty station his voice was different. Stella wished he wouldn’t do this.

  ‘A person about to jump looks at the train. Frost looked at me.’

  ‘Perhaps he changed his mind.’

  At last Jack moved away from the track. ‘I heard a man on the radio who survived jumping off a bridge and straight away regretted it. Water is like concrete if you hit it at speed, and the impact sucks you under. Water is incredible,’ he marvelled. ‘It comes from the river and it returns to the river.’

  ‘Did you tell the coroner?’ Stella pulled him back to the present.

  ‘They want facts, not impressions.’

  Stella was tempted to suggest impressions weren’t useful at any time, but Jack’s impressions had played a role in solving their last two cases. He seemed able to place himself in the mind of a murderer.

  ‘Why did he run along the District line side then cross to the Piccadilly?’ Jack pushed his fringe off his forehead and scanned the deserted platform. In the dim light Stella couldn’t see his face; his eyes were lost in their sockets. She looked down the platform; the wooden seating booths were empty, the announcement boards remained dark and the tracks were silent. She felt uneasy. It wasn’t just that a man had died here. She zipped her anorak up to her chin.

  ‘We should go,’ she said.

  ‘Plenty of time,’ Jack replied. ‘It was as if he changed his mind.’

  ‘Frost was out of sight of the driver? Had he seen Frost, he would have braked,’ Stella hazarded.

  ‘Good point. At the inquest the driver’s statement said Frost came out of nowhere and he had no time to brake. On the other hand he didn’t need to run, why not simply step off?’

  Jack’s reflection in the partition glass of the nearest booth was warped and strange. Stella thought again how, if she didn’t know him, she would be unnerved by meeting him at night. She was unnerved anyway.

  As if to underline her thought, Jack walked on and resumed his rhyme:

  ‘When the door began to crack,

  ’Twas like a stick across my back.’

  Like this he was impossible. Stella let him go. She watched him until he stepped out of the last pool of light into the shadows and, giving into the dog’s straining, she walked back up the platform towards the stairs.

  ‘They never do what they’re told, do they!’

  Stella stifled a shout.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.’ A man was by the wall. She couldn’t see his face, although he reminded her of someone – she couldn’t think who.

  ‘You didn’t.’ She kept her voice level, although surely he must hear her heart smashing against her ribcage. Besides, he would know he had surprised her.

  ‘They have finely tuned senses,’ he remarked. ‘Lovely dog.’

  Stella was impressed that he put the back of his hand towards Stanley rather than tried to pat his head. He must know about dogs. Stanley licked his fingers. So much for protection. Jack was at the other end of the station; he could do nothing.

  She looked up the line. Behind the brick building, they were only visible to the driver of a westbound train, but there was no train at Ravenscourt Park Station, a dot in the distance. Any driver would see two people chatting. Which was all it was. Come on, Jack!

  ‘He’s not mine,’ she said. ‘I’m giving him back soon.’ The man would be surveying the track. Better to do it at night with fewer trains, she supposed.

  ‘He’s pretty.’ The man took his hand away and surreptitiously wiped it on his coat.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as if the compliment were for her. ‘I’d better go, my friend’s waiting.’ Be polite to strangers. She let him know she wasn’t alone.

  The Piccadilly tracks were humming. Whoosh! Lights strobed, making her blink; doors and windows flashed a hair’s breadth from her. The clunkety-clunk then faded to nothing. Stella swept Stanley into her arms and ran down the platform looking for Jack.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you!’ He was in the last shelter, legs crossed, tucked into the corner as if resting after a Sunday-afternoon stroll. He was facing the Piccadilly line track. She collapsed next to him, too agitated to care when he continued to recite his rhyme. Jackie believed that reciting rhymes helped Jack to think.

  ‘When my back began to smart,

  ’Twas like a penknife in my heart;

  And when my heart began to bleed,

  ’Twas death, and death, and death indeed.’

  ‘He wasn’t running towards the track.’ Jack linked his arm through hers and drew her closer.

  ‘What?’ She would put up with this from no one else. It was freezing, although the glass gave shelter from the wind.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Jack was looking at the dog. Stanley had begun straining on the lead again.

  ‘He must want to go back up there. Sit!’ Stella rewarded the dog’s obedience with a fishy treat from the pouch strapped to her waist.

  With Jack sitting so close, Stella began to warm up. There was a flicker and she saw that a Richmond train had been flashed up on the board.

  ‘Fear. It wasn’t the calm expression of a man acting on a decision. The look on his face was fear.’ Jack let go of her arm and set off back up the platform. He continued talking. ‘William Frost said his brother was frightened of someone.’

  Stella caught up with Jack at the top of the staircase. ‘Suppose he was where that inspector is? You wouldn’t have seen him, after all. If not for the dog, I could have missed him there. It is probably out of the CCTV’s line of sight.’

  ‘What inspector?’

  ‘A man surveying the line.’ The dog wasn’t pulling any more, so she let the lead slacken. ‘Except Frost wouldn’t have seen him either.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Jack demanded, seeming suddenly alert.


  ‘Who?’

  ‘The inspector.’

  Stella lowered her voice. ‘Behind that building at the end of the platform.’

  Jack strode along the platform and around the brick building at the end of the station.

  Stella started after him but, contrary to his behaviour since they had arrived at the station, Stanley now refused to move. She was still urging him to ‘heel’ when Jack returned.

  ‘No one there. What did the man say he was doing?’

  ‘He didn’t say. I presumed he was inspecting the line.’ Now that she thought about it, the man had no torch, no notebook and was all in black, unwise for working on the track. ‘I suppose he was waiting for a train. Odd to leave when it’s due.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Jack exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Frost wanted me to see who was behind him. It was a sign. But of course I kept watching him.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Stella started walking down the stairs.

  ‘Meaning you were right – there was another person on the platform that night.’ Jack took her arm again, feet in step they returned to the ticket hall. ‘I need to go or I’ll be late for my pick-up at Earl’s Court.’ He let go of her arm and made for the eastbound platform staircase.

  ‘I could give you a lift.’ Stella was unwilling suddenly to let him go.

  ‘Thanks, but there’s a train in three minutes and thirty seconds. Are you OK going to the van by yourself?’ Jack hesitated as if he’d picked up on her unease.

  ‘Of course!’ Stella shook her head at the idea she would not be.

  ‘Oh, here, I almost forgot. take this.’

  Stella saw a flash of silver. It was Rick Frost’s phone.

  ‘What can I do with it? You’re the techno whizz.’

  ‘It’s been wiped, remember? You may as well have it for safe-keeping. For your files.’ He nodded as if to emphasize his words. They were detectives, they would have case files.

  Stella watched Jack until he vanished at the turn of the stairs. She was standing where Terry had that afternoon; she had turned at the top of the stairs and looked back to see him still there watching her. Jack didn’t look back.