The Dog Walker

by Lesley Thomson

  The door to the outer office opened. Stella tensed. Someone from the insurance office could have left the downstairs door on the latch. It could be a stranger who had wandered in off the street.

  Mewing piteously, Stanley tore out to the main office. Stella relaxed; Stanley knew the ‘stranger’.

  ‘You there, Stell?’ Jackie called. Stella saved her spreadsheet and went out to greet her.

  Jackie laid a bundle of post in Beverly’s in-tray and unwound a blue woolly scarf from around her neck. She wore a dark green wool coat and her cheeks were pink from the cold. A hand­some woman in her late fifties, shortish hair tucked behind her ears, she carried a capacious leather bag that Beverly called her ‘Mary Poppins’ bag because it held anything from pain­killers and plasters to biscuits, tea bags and cleaning materials. Jackie Makepeace took crisis in her stride. She was happily married to Graham, a surveyor with Hammersmith and Fulham Council, and they had two grown-up sons, Nick and Mark. Jack and Stella each gravitated to their Chiswick home for warm, domestic stability. Jack did so consciously, Stella, unaware of such needs, was lured by Jackie under pretexts that typically involved cleaning and fresh vegetables.

  Lauded in the local and specialist cleaning-sector media for single-handedly building a cleaning empire, Stella was under no illusion that this was true. Suzie Darnell had pitched in when Stella’s office was her bedroom in her mother’s Barons Court flat. It was Jackie who’d persuaded Stella to lease the two rooms in Shepherd’s Bush and as office manager she had steered the company’s growth with quiet efficiency.

  ‘Suzie needs a new cleaner.’ Jackie hung her coat on a set of hooks by the ‘tea station’ and flicked on the kettle. She took a litre of milk from her handbag and slotted it into a mini-fridge on top of which, besides the kettle, were tea and coffee things. She emptied the rest of a milk carton into two mugs. Stella’s mug displayed a map of Kew Gardens, a key client. Jackie’s, a gift from her son Nick who was a dancer in a West End musical, was decorated with ‘Perfect Mum’ within a red heart.

  ‘Why? Has Mum complained about Jack?’ Stella wandered to the pile of post and picked up the topmost envelope. Catching Jackie’s eye, she put it back. Opening post was Beverly’s job; it upset the process when Stella interfered. Jack loved her mum; it would be Suzie who had found fault.

  ‘Would Suzie complain about Jack?’ Jackie rolled her eyes. ‘No, but if he’s going to be staying at the haunted house he can’t do her cleaning.’ She poured boiling water into a pristine white teapot and, giving the tea bags a swish with a spoon, replaced the lid.

  ‘True.’ Planning the cleaning schedule was one of Stella’s favoured tasks and she was looking forward to doing it that afternoon. No amount of rejigging cleaning operatives would provide a solution to this problem. Her mum was hyper-fussy and at first had insisted on having only Stella ‘ferreting in my home’. But with Stella’s brother Dale living in Sydney, Suzie had determined that Jack fill the ‘son’ vacancy. She cooked for him and, according to Suzie, solved his problems. Stella didn’t know Jack had problems although Jackie said losing your mother when you were four was problem enough. Stella remained dubious that anything her mum said to Jack could help. Suzie went on about her ‘wrong turning’ often enough. ‘I’ll have to allocate another operative to the Latimer job.’ Stella rubbed at her temples; with little sleep over the last two nights, a headache was brewing.

  ‘Jack’s the only one who can confront a ghost.’ Straight-faced, Jackie handed Stella her tea. ‘We need someone else for Suzie and no, not you!’ She wagged a finger. Given the chance, Stella would clean full-time; for the good of the business, Jackie prevented her.

  ‘It’ll have to be me. Since Mum sprained her ankle, I have to go after work to sort out her meals anyway.’ For once Stella wasn’t keen to take on a cleaning job. She relished challenging clients, but her mum considered her a poor second to Jack; she would be a challenge too far.

  Jackie sat at her desk and switched on her computer. ‘Jack said you have a new case. That missing estate agent. I can’t think of her name – not Suzy Lamplugh.’

  ‘Helen Honeysett went missing in 1987, the year after Lamplugh. I haven’t told Mum.’ Stella always put off telling Suzie about a case because her response could be anything from proud that Stella was being a detective to complaining that Terry Darnell’s cases had taken him away from his family and that Stella would be the same.

  ‘All in good time,’ Jackie replied evenly. ‘Mind you, Suzie might know your dad’s take on the case.’

  Stella sighed. ‘She wasn’t married to him in 1987.’

  ‘She kept tabs on his work though.’

  Stella had to agree that this was true. Regardless of Suzie’s negative opinion of her ex-husband, she seemed to store the details of his major investigations in what amounted to a mental database.

  ‘I remember her disappearing.’ Jackie sat back and Stanley leapt on to her lap. He settled with his chin on her desk. ‘I’d just met Graham; we went for a meal in Kew. There were coppers swarming about at the station, everywhere. It was like up north before they caught Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. Women didn’t go out at night on their own. Graham didn’t let me out of his sight. Not that I’d have gone to that towpath in the dark. It can feel creepy in the day.’

  ‘She lived in the same street as the haunted house. Latimer said there’s a rumour she’s the ghost.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’ Jackie tucked a wrist-rest under Stanley’s chin for comfort. ‘I’d guess from seeing her that Natasha Latimer is used to getting what she wants. She’ll have been enraged that someone’s saying her house is haunted – there’s not much that’s more nebulous than a phantom!’ She tapped on her keyboard and set about her emails. ‘How are you going to approach it? It’s like weapons of mass destruction: hard to get rid of a ghost that’s not there.’

  ‘Jack will keep the house clean and keep a lookout for intruders and talk to the neighbours. She mentioned hearing a noise. I suggested the police, but she said they’d been. She didn’t have much time for them.’

  ‘It’s lose-lose, Stell. The best thing is that Jack’s on the spot for the Honeysett case.’ Jackie hit print and, tucking Stanley on her shoulder, got up and snatched a document as it spewed from a workhorse Hewlett-Packard printer on one of the filing cabinets by the door. She returned to her chair.

  ‘I reckon Adam Honeysett wants to clear his name, although he didn’t say that.’ Stella rarely talked to Jackie about detective cases. In the early days this was because she had been an unwilling detective encumbered with an unsolved case of her dad’s. Later she had worried that since Jackie discouraged her from cleaning in favour of pitching for business she’d draw the line at investigating a murder. When Jackie brought her a murder case, Stella had seen that, as ever, Jackie was right with her.

  Stella’s phone buzzed with a text. Jack Mob. An image filled the screen. Black writing on a blotchy background.

  STEVEN LAWSON, A SPECIAL HUSBAND AND DAD

  1952–1987

  ‘…it’s left a cloud over a few people. It was dreadful about that bloke,’ Jackie was saying. ‘At least the husband had an alibi so he was in the clear. What was that other bloke’s name? I want to say Paul Young because he was a spit image. I’ll look him up.’

  ‘Steven Lawson.’ It was too late to interview the plumber, nearly thirty years too late. Stella stared at the words on the phone screen.

  Jackie leant into her monitor. ‘Here we go: Bankrupt Beast Murders Beauty.’ She snorted. ‘What if Helen Honeysett hadn’t been attractive?’

  ‘What was the evidence against Steven Lawson?’ Stella thought of the son still living with Bette Lawson. Was it because her husband had died or because Bette and Garry Lawson knew he was a killer and were harbouring the secret?

  ‘Says here, Lawson was seen following Helen Honeysett to the towpath at night. The police arrested him, but quote “after extensive questioning, had to let him go” unquote.
Makes it sound as if they thought he was guilty, but had no choice. The tabloids found him guilty anyway. They hounded him. The poor guy was already in financial straits; after that his business collapsed. I remember marvelling at how easy it is to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and for your life to fall apart. He went from “decent family man” to Evil Plumber.’

  ‘He died the same year as Honeysett.’ Stella continued looking at her phone. Had Jack found Lawson’s grave? The lettering looked too small for a gravestone.

  ‘He committed suicide. He drowned in the Thames. I can’t remember the details. Sounds awful, but I was so mad about Graham at the time, nothing else mattered. Those were the days.’ Jackie fiddled with Stanley’s ears ruminatively. ‘What with the Paul Young thing, Steven Lawson didn’t look like a murderer!’

  ‘That’s how they get away with it.’ None of those who had committed the crimes Stella had solved looked like killers. Not until she knew that they were.

  ‘He had kiddies. A boy and a girl. Dreadful to lose your dad like that.’ Jackie sat up; the sudden movement made Stanley sit up too, ears pricked, angled out from his head like wings. ‘Changing the subject. As we know, Jack doesn’t believe in coincidences.’ Lowering her voice, Jackie did an imitation of Jack: ‘Every confluence is a sign.’

  Stella gripped her mug. One person being Jack was enough; she relied on Jackie for hard-and-fast reality.

  ‘I allocated one of the recent newbies to those flats being prepared for sale on the North End Road. The young woman did a brilliant job, over and above the brief, and on time. What is it with me? I can’t think of her name either. Beverly will know.’

  ‘How is that a coincidence?’

  ‘She’s just joined us and she’d be perfect for Suzie.’

  ‘No one will be perfect.’ Her mum thought Jack was perfect and Stella tended to agree.

  ‘We can at least aim for the stars.’ Jackie grabbed an A4 diary. ‘While I’ve got you, Stell, can we book a time to discuss the office move? What with your fledgling detective agency and these recent larger contracts, we’re already bursting at the seams in here. Also, I had this idea. Why not try out Beverly on this case? Get her doing legwork?’ Jackie, and Stanley, looked beadily at Stella.

  Apparently not having heard, Stella muttered, ‘I must speak to Jack,’ and went into her room. Back at her desk, she pressed quick dial.

  ‘This is Jack, who are you? Tell me after the beep.’

  21

  Wednesday, 1 April 1987

  ‘Whose dad’s a murderer? Whose dad’s a murderer?’

  ‘Watch out, she’ll kill you, like her dad did! April Foo-ool. April Foo-ool.’

  ‘Kill. Kill. Kill!’

  Megan ducked and twisted between trees on Kew Green and veered towards the main road. She didn’t go down the alley to her street because she didn’t want the children to follow her to her door. As she ran, Megan dimly knew this ploy was point­less because they already knew where she lived. Everyone knew where she lived.

  She swerved down a lane beside the arches under Kew Bridge and arrived at the towpath. Vaguely, she was aware of railings… bushes… the park. She belted through the gate and dodged across the playground, past the rocking boat and the swings to the grass. A sign said ‘No dogs allowed’. After her dad went, her mum gave Smudge away because there wasn’t anyone to walk him.

  Megan collapsed on to the new bench and leant on the arm getting her breath.

  ‘Your dad’s a murderer!’

  ‘Kill. Kill. Kill!’

  She could hear the chants, but couldn’t see Angela or the other girls. She heard them all the time, shouted in the playground, whispered in the dinner queue and behind the coats in the cloak­room. Wherever it came from it was true.

  The light was failing. The man from the council would come to lock the gates. Megan clutched the bench and rocked to stop herself crying. She turned around and buffed at the brass plate with the sleeve of her coat

  STEVEN LAWSON, A SPECIAL HUSBAND AND DAD

  1952–1987

  Someone had gouged ‘Killer’ into the wood underneath. Megan’s mum had come out with sandpaper and rubbed at it. But Megan could see it. Her mum said people were cruel and told lies. Megan knew, though her mum hadn’t said it, that she meant her. One night Garry had screamed, ‘It’s your fault Dad’s gone!’ Her mum sent him to the garden, but never made him say sorry. He wouldn’t let her care for the baby budgie any more and threatened to kill her if she went into his aviary. Otherwise he acted as though she wasn’t there.

  It was her fault. Mrs Merry had called the police and Megan had told the officer she’d seen her daddy and Helen Honeysett going to the towpath. Megan wasn’t sorry he was arrested because she had seen him. She was sorry that her mum was upset. She was sorry about the budgie. The police had let her dad go. But one day when no one was looking, he’d gone into the river. She mouthed the shiny new word. Suicide.

  Although Megan had seen her father’s coffin, she couldn’t grasp the full meaning of his absence. If she went to the towpath she might find him. He must be somewhere. She had come to his bench, but now realized that was silly because her dad didn’t know about it. She had hidden Smudge’s lead when he went away and fingering it now – she kept it in her school bag – she made believe that he was with her. Mrs Merry said the towpath was dangerous, but she had her daddy’s wrench for plumbing tucked in her satchel. Her mum had given away all his tools to the man who took Smudge. Her daddy would be pleased she had saved his wrench. Were people pleased about things when they were dead?

  Megan wasn’t alone in her search for Steven Lawson. Unknown to her children, Bette Lawson walked the footpath while they were at school; she came to the bench to find him. Garry sat on a stool in the aviary that his dad had let him help build. The Lawsons were lost to themselves and each other.

  ‘Your Dad’s a murderer!’

  Megan stuffed her fingers in her ears, but couldn’t stop the voices. Angie said she couldn’t be her friend because her mum wouldn’t let her play with Megan. Angela was back to being best friends with Becky Fox. No one must play with a murderer’s daughter.

  ‘Love you Megs.’

  ‘I love you back, Daddy.’

  ‘Kill. Kill. Kill!’

  22

  Wednesday, 6 January 2016

  A shadow flitted across the staircase wall. Then was gone. She was gone. Jack was four when his mother died. His memories of her were a procession of shadows and murmuring embraces as fragile as gossamer. He had looked at photographs, all taken in the later years of her short life. He feared that it was from these his recall derived. He took comfort from the soft lullabies that drifted around him as he walked through the London night. The caress of a breeze against his cheek.

  He shut the front door and waited for her shadow to return, but apart from the damp stains – since his father’s death years ago, he had never decorated – the wall remained blank. Whenever he saw his mother’s shadow – ghost – she was running up the stairs. However long he waited, his hand on the marble-topped table, standing where he had last seen her in this house, she never came downstairs. The silence in the five-storey house wasn’t of empti­ness, but of her presence. Come and find me! She would never come looking. Once it had been consoling to feel her close, but recently it had begun to feel like purgatory. He needed to be free.

  When Stella had asked him to live at Thames Cottages, Jack had been excited and impatient to get there. His discovery that Steven Lawson was dead had dampened his spirits. It was an absurd notion, since everyone dies, but in the photographs Lawson had looked too alive to die.

  He carried his suitcase on to the porch, suddenly reluctant to leave. It was betrayal. He switched off the hall light and didn’t linger to see if the dark would lure his mother down.

  He cradled the short-eared owl door knocker, feeling the weight of his feathered friend. He stroked the bird’s puffed chest with the side of his thumb. The body was light and warm,
the feathers soft.

  Fly away, Jack.

  His slow progress down the steps triggered a far-off memory of stumping down these same steps when he was a small boy. In bright sunlight he saw the blue wellington boots he had insisted on wearing even in the house. Clutched in chubby hands was a red steam engine. Jack had a vision of red sinking into mud and being washed away on the turning tide.

  It wasn’t sunny now. It was dark and, at half seven in the evening, people were eating supper or had yet to come home. He glanced at the next-door house. His elderly neighbour Mrs Ramsay had died some years ago and he was only on ‘hello’ terms with the man and woman who lived there now. Resting his gaze on the top window he fancied he saw Mrs Ramsay’s stern, angular face. He tipped a hand to her, but she too was a ghost.

  The brown leather case had been his mother’s. Her initials – K. V. for Katherine Venus – were embossed by the lock; the silver lettering had rubbed away.

  ‘Off on holiday, are we?’ Swathed in a mohair shawl, Bella Markham was ethereal in the lamplight. When he first met her Jack had been struck by her warm mellifluent tones; she had a beautiful singing voice. There was nothing warm about her now. She was smouldering with fury. He understood why. ‘When were you going to tell me, Jack?’

  ‘Bella. I’ve been…’ He couldn’t say that he had been pre­occupied by a new murder case. He couldn’t say he had been so concerned with the dead he had forgotten to tell her he was going away and couldn’t see her.

  ‘I said at the get-go I don’t do “serious”. You claimed to be up for that. Now you’re doing that classic shit of acting like I’m being the clingy nag. Putting pressure on you. Don’t make me the enemy so you can feel justified in getting out. Okay so I’ve been a misery lately, but you’re not exactly a laugh a minute. I haven’t changed, I still don’t do serious, I’m the girl who just wants to have fun. I thought we were having fun.’ Her voice thickened. ‘Where are you going?’ She batted a hand in front of her face. ‘Don’t answer. It’s not my business where you go any more than it’s yours what I do and who with.’