Jack ran around the partition. The table from his playroom and two of the kitchen chairs were under the south-east window. The logical place for these was against the partition, leaving a route to the bathroom. Jack would also have put them by the window so that he could watch. He looked out through the reinforced glass. He could see the detail on the turrets of Hammersmith Bridge; over in Kensington, a cluster of green would be the trees in Holland Park. Far off, the North Downs morphed into a bank of pink-grey clouds like a snowy mountain range. It would be too late to fetch his things tonight.
Jack slid aside a panel and revealed a large space, the quarter of the circle. Were he not upset, he’d be excited by the shower. Tiny nozzles in the ceiling would send out powerful jets of water. In an old water tower, there would be ample pressure.
Jack had chosen the removers recommended by Palmyra Associates because they knew the tower. Few firms would be willing to negotiate the stairways outside, even less the spiral stairs to the flat. Clean Slate offered attic clearance and Stella wouldn’t balk at a tower, but he had been keen to do the move alone. Although Stella would have arranged the furniture according to logic rather than spirit, at least his stuff would be here.
Jack plodded back to the main living area and sat on the end of the bed, nursing an ache in his chest. It was a kind of homesickness, although he had only briefly known a home to be sick for when he was very little. The door to his cupboard was ajar so he got up and to shut it.
Every shelf was full. Cardboard wallets, file boxes, bundles of letters, notebooks in a row, spine out. At the top, exactly where he would have stowed it, was his biscuit tin of particular treasures. Beside the cupboard by the north window to the right of the door was the clay bust of his mother set on its square plinth. How had he missed it?
So quick to panic, he had missed his laptop, his street atlas, his green-glass lawyer’s lamp. The removers had stocked the kitchen cupboards with his pans and the hot milk mug Stella had given him. In a drawer they had stowed his parents’ cutlery. On a shelf above they had arranged the blue enamel tins labelled ‘Tea’, ‘Coffee’ and ‘Sugar’ that Isabel Ramsay’s daughter had given him after the house clearance. They had left a litre of fresh milk in the fridge, semi-skimmed as he liked it, and thought to leave out his pot of organic runny honey beside the cooking knives.
Jack stifled any disquiet that strangers had handled his personal things and read his mind and set about heating some milk. After years of searching he had found a home.
He sat in the kitchen, sipped his milk and watched a man walking his dog along the towpath on the south side of the river. On Hammersmith Broadway, cars moved with more order than was perceptible at ground level. Before him was the city in miniature; he was floating above London as if on a magic carpet.
His elbow jogged a leather case tucked into the corner of the sill. It wasn’t his. He prised open the lid and inside found the most beautiful, elegant pair of binoculars he had ever seen. Chrome and black, substantial but not heavy, with a soft leather strap. He had planned to buy a pair, but it seemed that they came with the tower. Palmyra Associates had thought of everything. He put the strap around his neck and raised the binoculars.
Jack trained the glasses on the river, inching it over the eyot, along the mall to the Ram pub. Tilting the sights a fraction to the right, he hovered at the bottom of the Bell Steps. In the dwindling light, Hammersmith Bridge was a watercolour sketch, lights reflected in the water. Rush hour had started: headlights and brake lights on the Great West Road, the Hogarth roundabout and the flyover were broad sweeps of a paintbrush, red and white streaks. Holding the binoculars steady, Jack surveyed London. He saw without being seen. He had found his panopticon.
He swung back to the bridge and focused on a double-decker bus creeping south. On the top deck, two women sat on the front seat. One was laughing as she glanced at her reflection in the window and adjusted her hair. Her companion faced ahead. Behind them, a lad in his teens was wearing the neutral stare of disinterest typical of passengers travelling alone. Headphones on, he chewed gum mechanically. Jack felt the engine’s vibration and heard the laughter and the tinkly chatter of music escaping from the headphones as if he were there too.
Jack’s scrutiny was diverted to the footpath on the bridge. There was someone leaning on the railing. He craned forward, thinking that if it was someone contemplating suicide, there was nothing that he could do to prevent them. He could call the police, but they wouldn’t get there in time.
The man was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his brow. Abruptly the man stepped back from the balustrade and, looking towards the tower, he shifted his cap as if in greeting. Jack was in an unlit room a quarter of a mile from him, yet the man was looking at him.
The binoculars hit the table with a crash. Jack tried to apply Stella’s logic. Without binoculars he couldn’t see the bus, so the man couldn’t see him. Stella would say guilt that he was spying had convinced him that the man was looking at him. She wouldn’t like him secretly watching people. This was the second time a man had been drawn to his gaze. There had been the man on the bus outside Stamford Brook station the night Rick Frost had died. He too had worn a baseball cap. Plenty of people did.
The binoculars were undamaged, but had dented his table. He looked again at the bridge and adjusted the focus. It was hard to keep a steady sight on a target or track a moving one because with the slightest twitch of the wrist he travelled hundreds of metres. The bus had gone. Jack felt no guilt that he was watching unseen. The tower gave him 360-degree surveillance.
Jack returned the binoculars to their case, relishing the musky scent of the leather. It was dark, so he felt his way around the partition to the main room and found the light switch. A gentle glow revealed dips and grooves in the concrete wall.
Under his desk he spotted four blue lights: a Wi-Fi router. There had been no mention of Wi-Fi connection in the leaflet or the contract, and Jack had been content to do without it.
He fired up his laptop and was presented with a choice of two routers. This high he hadn’t expected to pick up other connections. ‘CBruno’. Unwise of the owner to use their name; it gave easy advantage to True Hosts, murderers or would-be murderers who stopped at nothing to catch their prey. His own router identifier was a mix of letters and numerals. Jack typed in his password and seconds later saw he had an email.
It welcomed him to the tower. They had sent a workaday list of instructions: where to find the fuse box, spare light bulbs and window locks, how to work the boiler and the thermostat and when it was bin day. It wished him well in his new home and was signed ‘on behalf of Palmyra Associates’. The company might be large, or perhaps, given the lack of website, was small posing as large. Jack didn’t care. Typing a ‘thank you’, he reflected that the tower was perfect and he had the perfect landlord.
He was preparing for bed when he heard a glug from the sink in the kitchen as if liquid was being poured down it. He tiptoed to the doorway. Of course there was no one there: it was one of the sounds of his new home.
His phone was glowing.
Need to see you. Where are you? Stella D.
Unlike Stella to write so late and to put the ‘D’. There was only one Stella.
He texted the address of his tower and went to the kitchen. Palmyra Associates had left him a packet of Brooke Bond tea, Stella’s favourite.
25
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
Stella found a space in the short-stay car park by a column marked ‘3D’. Jack would like that. She regretted refusing his offer to come with her to the airport; why had she thought she should meet Suzie’s new man on her own? She told herself that Stanley, a good judge of character, would sniff out this Dale bloke. With the dog trotting at her heel, she crossed to the lift lobby.
‘Excuse me.’ A stocky man in a hi-vis jacket cut her off at the lift. ‘No dogs allowed in the airport.’
‘I wasn’t thinking.’ Rattled by William Frost, Stella had
completely forgotten to leave Stanley with Jackie. She gave a tight smile and, ‘tssking’ at Stanley as if he was there without permission, she returned to the van and, with the dog on her lap, paws resting on the steering wheel, texted Suzie: In car park with Stanley. 3D.
The airport’s website told her the plane had landed half an hour ago. Stella told herself that Jackie had a point; it would be good for Suzie to have someone special. Maybe she’d stop complaining about Terry as if he were still alive.
She turned her attention to the case. They had three suspects, not counting anyone Rick Frost may have exposed through his surveillance techniques. Tallulah Frost, William Frost himself and thirdly whoever had been at the station when Frost died. Being stringent she should include the man she had met when she and Jack were there. Although there was no reason to suspect him. He might have been doing exactly what she had assumed he was doing, inspecting the line. She dubbed him the inspector. Finally William himself. He had been strangely unwilling to help since bringing them the case and at lunch had seemed oddly nervy. He wasn’t all he seemed. Stella put aside her antipathy towards him for using his brother’s app to find her and returned to the question about Frost. Why commit murder, disguise it as suicide – and then persuade them it was murder? Jack thought it was warped vanity, Frost wanting credit for his cleverness. It was less gratifying to clean houses for sale after a death with no client to appreciate dazzling surfaces and germ-free crevices. The wife stood to gain the most by Rick Frost’s death even if his specific policy didn’t pay up for a suicide. They needed to meet Mrs Frost and see the house she had shared with her husband. Try as she might, Stella could think of no honest way to do this.
Stanley scrambled off her lap on to the steering wheel. He stood on the horn; his furious barking was drowned out by its deafening blare.
Stella saw Suzie weaving between the vehicles towards her, gesticulating with great sweeps of her arm. She wore her old macintosh, with the red scarf Jackie had given her for Christmas wound around her neck. Nothing indicated she had returned from an Australian summer – she didn’t even have a sun tan. Stella got out of the van. Stanley was straining towards her mum, choking with the effort.
Her mum wasn’t beckoning to her. At the end of a line of concrete supports (3A, 3B, 3C), a man was wrestling with a wayward trolley, mountainous with luggage. As if tacking a sailing boat, he leant out and slewed the trolley full circle. He pushed it into a pool of bleak lamplight.
It was Terry.
Suzanne Darnell took the man’s hand and, grabbing Stella’s, she pushed them together. ‘Stella, Dale. Dale, Stella!’
26
October 1987
Before he went into the cage, Simon checked the alley behind him. There was no one. On his way through the cemetery he had hatched a plan. He would form his own unit, and the tower would be HQ. He wasn’t scared. He would recruit Justin and Nicky. His little sister could be the mascot. He would let Justin be captain. The old Captain would be the enemy. After what happened the last time they were in the tower, Simon considered the Captain as good as dead.
It was a week since Simon’s picture had been in the newspaper, together with an article about the brave little boy who had saved his mother from a mugger. Nicky had been impressed, although she hadn’t said anything at their last meeting back in the old HQ. The Captain hadn’t said anything either.
Simon forced himself on to the semi-circular walkway at the top of the staircase. He had forgotten how high it was; the ground far below tugged at him, urging him to leap – it was like walking the plank. The wind was much stronger up here; it, too, goaded him. He held on to the guard rail tightly, his woolly gloves slipping on the metal. Justin warned against leaving fingerprints. Not true – Justin had said, leave no trace. With no suspicion, there would be no reason to look for fingerprints. Simon heard the other boy’s voice as if he was beside him now. Simon didn’t trust himself to leave no trace. He let go of the guard rail and, hands and back flat to the concrete, shuffled to the door and crept inside the tower.
He swept his torch beam around. Its light bounced off the triangular metal stairs. This time, regardless of safety, Simon shut the tower door. He listened: Justin advised entrance to a property only after all sounds had been identified. The rumble of traffic and the harsh wind couldn’t penetrate the thick walls. Simon believed he was alone. The door to the chamber where he had hidden with the Captain was set into a recess behind the staircase. It was closed.
His torch picked out something on the floor. Two black leather gloves. Simon’s gloves had been knitted by Mrs Henderson to match his sister’s mittens, but these gloves were for grown-ups. He didn’t need to read the name in the lining. He guessed that the Captain had dropped his gloves when he’d run away and left Simon to die. He had complained they had been stolen; he would be too scared to come back for them.
Simon put them into his coat. When he placed a foot on the spiral staircase, he wanted to poo and had to clench his bottom until the cramps subsided. His heart smashing against his ribs, he began to climb.
This time the door was shut. He crept over the landing and put his ear to the metal. His bowels stirred again. Silence wasn’t good, Justin said, better to hear the enemy and locate them. He craned over the rail; the steps wound off into the dark. No one knew he was in the tower. He could go. He went down four steps, spiralling this way meant he was facing the door, his nose at floor level. He ran up the stairs again and before he could change his mind, twisted on the ring handle. The door opened with a groan.
The boy was hit by a terrible stench of lavatories, potties and nappies, and thought that after all he had messed his pants. He felt himself. No, his trousers were dry. He took a step inside.
Dark streaks, dried and crusted, were smeared on the concrete floor. Simon went further into the room and saw that, after all, he wasn’t alone.
27
Thursday, 24 October 2013
A figure was on the metal walkway, tall against the London skyline. Fleetingly it occurred to Jack that, with no security camera, he could have no idea who was outside until he opened the door.
‘He’s my brother!’ The voice was muffled within her hood; but for the dog glaring malevolently at him from her shoulder, Jack wouldn’t have known it was Stella.
‘Who is?’
‘Dale Heffernan is not my Mum’s new man, he’s my brother.’
‘Sugar?’ He pulled forward one of Mrs Ramsay’s blue enamel tins and lifted the lid. It was empty. They were in the kitchen. Stella sat with her back to the south-east window. The binoculars were behind her on the window ledge. Jack didn’t know why he’d rather she didn’t notice them.
‘I don’t take sugar.’ He knew that.
He sloshed milk into his mug. The carton was light; he would need to buy more. Shopping involved a long descent, then a climb back up – a tiny price for living in a panopticon.
‘Are you sure?’ He handed Stella a mug of milky tea. ‘Suzie had two relationships with Terry? Like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.’
‘Yes.’ Stella smiled wryly as she took the tea. At her feet Stanley emitted a guttural growl. Jack had forgotten about the protective force field the dog erected around his mistress. Stella didn’t need protecting, and if she did, an animal the size of a tea towel couldn’t do it. He led her through to the main room. Indicating she have the chair by his desk, he retreated to his bed a distance from the dog.
‘They went out with each other for six months and split up. Eighteen months later Mum went back to him. She calls Terry her “wrong turning”. Seems she took it twice.’
‘That would put her back where she started.’ Jack traced the journey in the air with a finger. ‘Actually, no, if you turn right instead of left, then you would—’
‘Jack! It’s complicated enough.’ Stella was still in her anorak, despite the effective heating. Jack hadn’t worked out how to turn it off. ‘Her parents didn’t want her to marry a police constable. I never kn
ew my grandparents, but she says they were snobby and interfering. When she found she was having Terry’s baby, they made her give him up for adoption. She’s regretted it ever since. The way Mum told it tonight, you’d think Terry was the love of her life.’ Stella sipped her tea and shot him a look of gratitude: he’d got it right. ‘They met the first time when Terry pulled her over one night for speeding in her Mini Traveller on Holland Park Avenue. He said he wouldn’t charge her if she went out on a date with him.’
‘I told you that.’ Jack had found that out during the Blue Folder case. Stella hadn’t believed him. Now he felt petty and was relieved that she hadn’t heard. She had insisted that her mother had met Terry Darnell, then a spruced-up Mod in two-tone suit and winklepickers, at the Hammersmith Palais. Jack couldn’t help himself, ‘So they didn’t meet while dancing?’
‘Yes, the second time around. Terry taught her to do the bossa nova and she claims she never looked back.’
Stanley was sniffing along the wall by the door, pattering back and forth across the floor, his claws tapping on the wooden boards. Jack wished Stella would stick him back on his lead, he didn’t trust him.
‘Are you sure this Dale is Terry’s son?’ Nor did he trust Dale Heffernan. He recognized he was disappointed that Suzie hadn’t confided in him. Had he known, he could have warned Stella. Except Suzie would have told him in confidence so it would have been another secret to keep from Stella. Better she had not told him.
‘Are you listening?’ Stella seemed jumpy. She clasped her mug of tea as if to warm herself, although she must be sweltering. ‘Yes, I am sure!’
‘I was thinking, Suzie can be impressionable. You hear stories of parents reunited with lost children and it turns out it’s not them. People believe what they want to.’
The Detective's Secret Page 13
