The Dog Walker

by Lesley Thomson

  Coolly she considered that Helen had jogged along this path. The mindset of a runner dwelt on speed and distance and not detail, smells and shadows. What had Helen Honeysett missed? Whom had she met? It wasn’t evident when Helen Honeysett went missing: it could have been any time after eight p.m. on the Wednesday till around eight on the next evening when Adam Honeysett said he came back. Had the estate agent died on the Wednesday or had she spent time with someone before she was murdered? She hadn’t gone to work that day. Stella had read that she’d never had a day off sick so it was likely that by then she was dead. Still, it left twenty-four hours unaccounted for. Adam had said he’d gone to Northampton that day. Presumably he had or the police would have arrested him. She checked the time. It was after one in the morning. Too late to call on Adam Honeysett. Besides, she wanted Jack with her.

  Insipid light cut through the canopy of branches. Although London was never dark, Stella needed her torch app to see. Stanley tugged again. She hissed, ‘Sit!’ He ignored her command. Helen Honeysett wouldn’t have had this issue; she had let her dog – Baxter was an odd name – run free.

  A light in a house on Strand on the Green on the north bank cast spattering light on the swirling water. The pattern formed and re-formed. It was the image on the wall in Natasha Latimer’s basement. Stella realized that she was by Latimer’s garden. She squinted up at the cottage’s roof and made out a shape on the chimney. The camera. She was pretty sure that the lens was trained on the river, so it couldn’t see her and Stanley. Jack couldn’t see her. Stella became aware of dull slaps of water against the bank. Of a silence beyond. The silence of presence.

  On the cold static air, she smelled washing powder. Jack smelled of fresh clean clothes. Stanley gave a succession of sharp barks. He never barked at Jack.

  ‘It’s late to be out.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ Stella demanded.

  The figure was spectral. ‘Stella, it’s Adam.’

  Adam Honeysett. She had just been thinking about him. Jack said there was no such thing as a coincidence. A coinciding of events is a sign.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Alarmed by her tone, Stanley esc­al­ated to shrill cries and, teeth bare, he dived at Honeysett’s ankles.

  ‘Never admit to the culprit that you are frightened. Your fear is their objective. Don’t let them know they have succeeded.’

  Her dad’s advice, given to the little daughter determined to be a detective, came to her unbidden. Stella had no need to pretend, she wasn’t frightened.

  ‘I’m walking my dog.’ He moved closer to her. ‘As are you. Another late-night dog walker, I see.’ As if to prove this, a brown and white spaniel meandered into the hazy light of Stella’s torch. When she visited him, she hadn’t seen a dog. Thinking of her spreadsheet, she asked, ‘What’s your dog’s name?’

  ‘Tiffany. Not my choice, she’s a rescue. Best not to change their names: they’re already disturbed. I feel an idiot calling her!’

  Remembering what she had been thinking, Stella blurted, ‘How come you didn’t tell me you were having an affair when your wife went missing?’

  The river slopped against the bank. The sound was irregular and eerie.

  At last Adam Honeysett spoke. ‘It was irrelevant. It didn’t change how I felt – how I feel – about Helen.’ In the dark Stella couldn’t see his expression.

  ‘How isn’t it relevant? It makes you a key suspect!’ She shone her torch on him. He blinked in the light.

  ‘Safety first: avoid being trapped with a person you suspect of murder, and if you are, don’t say anything likely to inflame.’

  Too late for that.

  ‘For exactly that reason. I don’t want you to treat me as a sus­pect. You’d have concentrated your investigation on me. I know I’m not guilty.’

  ‘I don’t know that. My partner and I need all the facts to make informed decisions and identify credible leads.’ Stella put on her talking-to-difficult-clients voice. ‘We keep an open mind and we don’t rule out anyone without a concrete reason. You withheld a vital fact. If anything it puts you further up our list.’ Stella was distantly aware that, aside from inflaming a possible murderer, she wouldn’t tick off a cleaning client. It was their privilege to limit where a cleaner could go. She had often cleaned in houses with locked rooms.

  ‘You think I did it?’ Honeysett said quietly.

  The sensible answer on a dark isolated path by the Thames long before dawn, was ‘No, never!’ Stella glanced up at Latimer’s roof camera. She wondered if the live feed had sound. In any case, if she shouted would Jack hear? Was he still there? He was probably with Bella. She retreated and stepped on Stanley sitting – unbidden – at her feet. He gave a terrible squeal. The sound unnerved her.

  ‘Watch your step, Stella.’ A warning. Did it have wider meaning?

  ‘I don’t know what I think.’ As Stella massaged Stanley’s paw she recalled that Jack said honesty was over-rated.

  ‘I can’t have you working for me if you think I’m guilty. My private detective must have faith in me.’

  Stella had one rule with all clients, whether cleaning or crime-solving: she didn’t accept rudeness or unreasonable contractual conditions. Even if her life depended on it, she wouldn’t be compromised.

  ‘We will have to turn down the job. Thank you for giving Clean Slate the chance to consider it.’ Stella pattered out her script for passing up a client. ‘Just one thing.’ She should leave it there, but as it had in Honeysett’s lounge, curiosity won out. ‘You said you recognized my van on Kew Green. I drive a plain white van; nothing links it to Clean Slate. You lied. Why should I have faith in you?’ She spoke loudly in case Jack could hear. ‘You referred to “the true killer”. What makes you sure your wife was killed? If she knew about Jane Drake she might have left you.’

  Although it was dark, it seemed to Stella that it got darker. Stanley gave a low growl.

  ‘She wouldn’t have left me.’ Stella saw movement as Honeysett thumped his heart with a fist. The passionate gesture didn’t convince.

  ‘Everything all right?’ A light bobbed along the towpath from the direction of Kew Stairs. A woman in her late fifties, in wellingtons and a donkey jacket several sizes too large, swept her torch across them. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She played the light over Adam Honeysett’s chest.

  ‘Bette, nice to see you too,’ Honeysett said smoothly. ‘Bette Lawson, Stella Darnell.’

  ‘Is he giving you gyp?’ Stella couldn’t tell if the woman was joking.

  ‘Of course.’ Adam Honeysett wasn’t joking. ‘It’s what I do, you know that. Late for you to be out, Bette.’

  ‘I’ve come off a late shift. This is my evening. What’s your excuse?

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Adam Honeysett spoke heavily as if this was usual.

  ‘You won’t sleep wandering about out here.’ Bette Lawson bid them goodnight.

  Mentally Stella summoned facts from her spreadsheet. A and E Nurse. Lives with grown-up son, Garry. Budgerigars. Latimer says weirdo. Daughter, Megan. Bette was Steven Lawson’s widow. Good with names, Stella was sure Bette Lawson had never been a Clean Slate client, but even in dim torchlight, she was familiar. Stella had seen her in photographs, but it wasn’t just her features, it was her facial movements that struck a chord. Maybe it was that there were limited faces and voices in the world: sooner or later you found duplicates.

  ‘If anyone has reason not to trust me, it’s her.’ Honeysett had waited until Lawson was out of earshot. ‘My alibi put her husband in the frame. She could hate me, yet she doesn’t. She believes Steven was innocent and is fanatical about proving it. If anyone could think I’m guilty it’s Bette, but she has faith in me.’

  ‘Mrs Lawson has known you for thirty years. I don’t put faith in anyone after a few days. We trust no one. That includes Bette Lawson.’ Stella started towards the light of the Thames Cottage lamp-post, Stanley beside her. The back of her head prickled with the likelihood Honeysett would attack her.
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  There was no light on at Natasha Latimer’s. Jack would be in bed. Or he might be at Bella Markham’s. But surely Jack wouldn’t desert his ‘post’. Since Bella had come on the scene, Stella had even less idea what Jack would do.

  ‘Listen, Stella, I want a detective who chases the truth wherever it takes them. Someone who faces reality head on. Someone swayed by the head, not by the heart. I read about you and I came to your office to speak to you. I saw you driving off and took down the number plate. When I saw it on Kew Green on Monday night, I reckoned it had to be a sign. I still do. Shall we start again?’

  Swayed by the heart rather than the head, Jack would approve that Honeysett had interpreted seeing her van as a sign. He made decisions based on cracks in pavements, cloud formations and dreams. She was reluctant to introduce him to Adam. Reality she could face, but the prospect of witnessing an enthusiastic exchange on the meaning of signs didn’t enthral.

  Honeysett was opening his front door. Moments later he reappeared clasping a cardboard box. ‘If you’ll keep on this case, here’s the rest of the stuff. I’ve collected it since 1987.’

  In the van, with the box on the passenger seat, Stella pondered on what she’d said. Should she believe in a client’s innocence to accept their brief? She would never clean for someone she didn’t trust. Her mum said Terry hadn’t trusted anyone, not even his family.

  A woman was coming along the pavement beside the green. Mostly if strangers’ eyes meet, their gaze flits away, but the woman looked straight at her. Stella was glad she’d locked the van. The woman, dressed against the cold in a bulky duffel coat, had long wavy hair that vaguely reminded Stella of Bella who, although only a few months younger than her, could seem as if in her early forties. Diverted by thoughts of Jack’s girlfriend, Stella became aware that the woman had disappeared. No ghost; the only way she could have gone was down the alley to Thames Cottages.

  Stella unclipped Stanley – she wouldn’t leave him in the van – and ran across the road with him under her arm, and along the alley. The woman was outside the cottages. Did she live in one of them? She was too young to be Sybil Lofthouse or Daphne Merry and Stella knew she wasn’t Bette Lawson. Was she Megan Lawson? Or one of the ‘new girls every week’ Latimer had referred to? She inched closer, keeping in the shadow of the hedge. The woman was gazing at Adam Honeysett’s house. Stella felt uncomfortable. She was essentially spying on a stranger; she should go back to the van. Yet a strong detective instinct urged her to stay. Adam had come to her years after his wife disappeared. Helen Honeysett had been declared officially dead in 2007. Why hire a private detective now? Jack would say spying was necessary.

  The woman unlatched Adam Honeysett’s gate. On the path, she caught her shoe on a stone and kicked it. Stanley tensed and took a breath, a prelude to barking. Stella clamped her hand over his jaws. He squealed and struggled.

  ‘Who’s there?’ The woman sounded scared. Stella felt terrible. Nevertheless, if she answered, how could she explain hiding? She pushed closer into the hedge. It was no hiding place; if the woman had a torch Stella would be discovered.

  Apparently satisfied that she’d been mistaken, the woman went to the door. Stanley mewed. Stella flushed with panic. How could she shut him up? No longer a faithful companion, he threatened to betray her. She could knock him out. He growled and on a reflex, she pressed him to her chest, thinking – or not thinking – to smother him inside her jacket, but it was zipped up. He wriggled and she gripped him hard, blindly aware that she might crack his delicate rib cage. Fear of discovery had made her ruthless. He jerked free and let out a volley of outraged barks.

  ‘Come out of there!’ Now obviously frightened, the woman was back at the gate.

  ‘I’m taking my dog for a walk.’ Stepping away from the hedge, Stella did Jack’s thing of opening your mouth and seeing what came out. What had come out was feeble.

  ‘He’s not doing much walking.’ The woman nodded at the dog in her arms.

  Stella gaped at Stanley as if she hadn’t realized she held him. Free-falling, she opted for ground zero. ‘Did you want to see Adam? Are you a… a friend?’

  ‘Adam, is it?’ The woman put up the hood of her duffel coat. Like a cowl, it gave her a sinister aspect.

  ‘I just wondered.’ She was making a mess of this. Jack was only metres away, but in the soundproofed basement, he wouldn’t hear Stella shout for him.

  ‘It’s none of your business. More to the point, who are you? Why were you watching me?’

  ‘Bella Markham.’ What the hell had possessed her to say that?

  ‘OK, Bella Markham, I wish you luck, he’s all yours.’ The woman rammed her hands in the pockets of her duffel coat and stalked down the pavement and up the steps to the towpath. The darkness swallowed her.

  Stella was rooted to the spot. If there was a spy test, she’d totally failed it. She looked at Adam’s house, hoping he’d not heard her. His windows were dark. She could rouse him and ask who the woman was. She obviously knew him. Stella felt reluctant to pursue it now: she needed time to think. Adam had given her the rest of his case file, yet she had a hunch – based on nothing she could put her finger on – that there was still something he wasn’t telling her. No, she determined, client or not, she didn’t trust Adam Honeysett. Stella shifted Stanley on to her shoulder and carried him back to the van.

  *

  If Stella had waited a moment more, she would have seen that someone else was out on that freezing night. A shadow passed through the lamplight at the top of the towpath steps going in the same direction along the river as the woman in the duffel coat.

  28

  Thursday, 8 April 1987

  ‘Ring a ring o’ roses,

  a pocketful of murderers,

  kill one, kill two

  and they all die!’

  The children jigged and clapped around Megan in a merry dance. She sat on her dad’s bench barely aware of the blur of legs. Voices raucous, the song was punctuated by gales of laughter. Angela sang louder than the rest. Someone had scratched ‘Killer’ on the bench again and tried to lever off the plaque, bending the metal.

  In the Chronicle, reporter Lucie May wrote that:

  …schoolkids near where blonde beauty Helen Honeysett went missing acted out her murder in the playground. A boy, hands tied with a skipping rope, was taunted by his playmates. A psychological expert told us that it was ‘healthy for children to express fears and anxieties through play, if monitored’. Do we want our kids playing ‘murder’ instead of hopscotch or marbles?

  No one was monitoring these children in the park as, in failing light, they closed in on Megan Lawson, their taunts shrill. Through her bewilderment Megan heard her mum. Springing to life, she pushed her way through the gang and ran out the gate.

  ‘You’ve never been happy to let things be. Had to ruin it, didn’t you? If you couldn’t have it, you made sure I didn’t. Satisfied now?’

  Her mum was on the pavement. She was shouting at some­one. Megan didn’t need to go closer to recognize Aunty El. Her aunty’s voice was low and because she wasn’t shouting, Megan couldn’t hear her reply. Her mum was waving a carving knife. She was going to kill Aunty El. Her mum hurled the knife on to the paving. It flapped like a bird at her aunty’s feet. ‘Don’t come round ever again. Take that poison and leave us alone!’

  The door slammed. Megan’s Aunty El stayed outside. Since Helen Honeysett had gone, everything was horrible. Megan was about to call to her when she saw Mr Rowlands on the towpath steps. All the children hated him, but now they hated her more. Megan was too scared to move, no longer sure her Aunty El would protect her.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Megan thought her aunty was talking to her, but she was walking towards Mr Rowlands. They went inside his house. Megan knew he liked Daphne Merry, he was always hanging about her. When she’d told Daphne that she thought Mr Rowlands wanted to marry her, Daphne had been very cross. ‘I’m not marrying anyone again, Megan. Trust no one!’

&
nbsp; Don’t come here again. Take this poison and leave us alone!

  If Megan took her aunty’s side she wouldn’t be allowed home. Megan ran back to the park. The children had gone. She stayed on her dad’s bench until it was dark and then crept home. Newspaper lay on the grass that her dad used to keep tidy. A De-Clutterer, Megan gathered up the pages. Helen Suicide Suspect in Debt. Steven Lawson’s face was smiling at her. Megan lifted the paper and kissed him. ‘Love you best, Daddy,’ she whispered.

  29

  Thursday, 7 January 2016

  Natasha Latimer had asked Jack to check the area around the cottage for the ghost. At the precise time Stella was driving away from Kew Green Jack left the house and went up the steps to the towpath.

  Who am I and what have I done?

  The words on Latimer’s computer floated across his thoughts. In her circumstances, he would ask himself that question too. Latimer didn’t strike him as reflective. Had someone else put the question on her screensaver? It was too tangible an action for a phantom.

  Every so often there was a gap in the clouds and a crescent moon sent light scattering on the water. Jack had begun to see Latimer’s River Wall as reality so found it strange to see the scene ‘live’. He couldn’t know that, at the same spot on the tow­path a few minutes earlier, Stella had thought something similar.

  He walked until he reached the dilapidated house. He wanted to establish what had attracted Stanley there. He was alone. No sign of Daphne Merry. He lifted the gate off its latch and, avoiding the gravel, approached the porch.

  There was a loud clink. Jack shone his Maglite down. He had kicked over a milk bottle. It hadn’t been there earlier. Someone did live here. He righted the bottle and quickly slipped to the side out of sight of the front windows. The house was isolated, but close to Kew Green: he couldn’t claim to be lost.