The Dog Walker

by Lesley Thomson

  ‘It sounds like he was desperate.’

  ‘He had to be to do that to his kids, didn’t he?’ Bette snapped shut the staple remover. ‘If he’d seen Helen, I know for a fact he’d have gone the other way. He was upset, he’d have avoided her like the plague.’

  Stella switched tack. ‘Lucie didn’t like your husband. Why was that?’

  ‘Lucie doesn’t like many people. You’re lucky she likes you.’

  Stella didn’t think about whether people liked or disliked her. After the visit to Lucie’s Murder Room and their encounter in the court car park, she suspected Lucie didn’t like her.

  ‘She was five when I was born. Lucie resented me. She had to have the limelight. She’d sit by the fire drying her hair, long and blond it was then, brushing until it crackled with static. She spent hours on her make-up. Men adored her. I was her little helper. No wonder I’m a nurse. Steve hardly noticed Lucie. He could flirt for England, but never did with her. It was me he wanted. She was jealous.’

  ‘But she hated him.’

  ‘Have you got siblings?’ Bette fixed Stella with the same basilisk glare as Lucie May had that morning, and Stella saw they were sisters.

  ‘A brother. He didn’t grow up with me; I hardly know him.’ Stella had never told a stranger this before. It wasn’t much of a divulgence, but she would never have told Lucie May.

  ‘Brothers might be different. Unless one of you is gay, he won’t be after your other half. Lucie had to have every man she met. Including your gorgeous bloke, no matter he’s half her age! I put it down to my dad never praising her. Lucie said Steve wasn’t good enough for me, but he was worth a hundred of her blokes. She hated Steve for passing her up. Don’t get on the wrong side of my sister!’

  Stella already was on the wrong side of Lucie. She was about to say Jack wasn’t her ‘bloke’, but Bette Lawson went on, ‘Mum boasted her daughter met the rich and famous. It was crap: Lucie made that up like she does everything. When Mum got the cancer, Lucie would drop in for five minutes and rush off for some deadline. I’d started nursing so Lucie left it to me. I got the sharp end of Mum’s temper, nothing I did was right, but she’d put on a big smile when Lucie breezed in. I once asked Lucie to sit with Mum because I had a shift. She was livid, went ape, saying how she had a career and wasn’t twiddling her thumbs waiting to marry and have babies. She came when I told her Mum was dying, but she was like the kids on long car journeys asking when we’d get there: she kept on at me about when was Mum going to die, because she had an important interview. Steve said what was more important than being at your mum’s deathbed? Lucie stormed out. Moments later, Mum died. Lucie was too busy to register her death and arrived late for the funeral. When she performed her eulogy – and I mean performed – there wasn’t a dry eye in the crem.’

  Bette Lawson looked drawn and pale. The prospect of nur­sing her own mum, or being there when she died, dizzied Stella. A strained ankle was a challenge. She wouldn’t judge Lucie May.

  ‘Lucie poisoned Megan’s mind against her dad. Megan wasn’t a girl who easily made friends. She called our neighbour, Mrs Merry, her friend. Daphne Merry’s little girl was killed in a car crash, and she had time for Megs. I felt for Daphne. Don’t know what I’d do if that happened to either of my two.’ Bette fiddled with her wedding ring, twisting it around on her finger. ‘I don’t blame her for taking Megs to the police, in her mind she didn’t want another husband getting away with it.’

  Stella nodded at the file. ‘Have you shown your interviews to the police?’

  ‘They gave me short shrift. As good as said: Stick to your work and we’ll do ours. They think Steven killed Helen so the case is as good as closed. When Adam said he’d hired you, I thought he was having a laugh. A cleaner! But I read about you. A cleaner’s like a nurse, we’re not prejudiced, we take people as we find them.’

  ‘Adam Honeysett had a lot to gain.’ Stella watched her closely. Did Bette suspect that Honeysett had killed his wife, and by default, her husband.

  ‘He was with that girl, Jane Drake. Poor kid got chucked in the deep end of a media scrum.’

  ‘Do you know a Brian Judd?’ Stella asked.

  ‘That old man living in the ramshackle house on the river? Only to say hello to. Not that he replies. He’s a sociopath. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him for years. It wasn’t him. He was at his office at the council till late.’

  ‘Who do you suspect?’

  ‘She was a little madam. Yes’ – she raised a palm – ‘it’s bad to speak ill of the dead, but Helen got up a lot of people’s noses. She could have upset anyone.’

  ‘Did she upset you?’ Stella knew what she was implying.

  ‘She was silly around Steve, but he was a grown-up and he had bigger fish to fry. Probably did his mood good her batting her eyelashes at him. Besides, she put him in mind of his sister.’ Bette exhaled. ‘For all her faults Sarah was a lovely girl. I haven’t seen her since Steve’s death. She’s a Facebook friend. Lives the life of Riley in Bali if Facebook is anything to go by. She’ll always bounce back.’ Lawson spoke without rancour.

  ‘Did you think they were having an affair?’ Jack wouldn’t like her asking a straight question, but Stella thought Bette was a straight-talking woman.

  ‘Mostly no. Like I said, I knew Steve loved me.’ She snapped the jaws of the staple remover shut. ‘I have my moments, those low times we all get when my imagination gets going.’ She shrugged.

  ‘So it was harmless flirting?’ Stella pushed. If Bette Lawson did think her husband and Helen Honeysett were involved, Stella was sure she wouldn’t sit by and let it blow over. She’d put a stop to it.

  ‘Yes it was. Although maybe not harmless since in the end it killed him.’ Bette Lawson pushed the box file towards Stella. ‘Steve was as good as murdered and the murderer was Helen Honeysett. But for her my Steve would be here. She ruined it for him, for all of us. Garry’s the ghost of the little boy who was into everything, chock-full of plans. I’ll never get my son back, but before I die I want to see Steve cleared. I want my kids to have some peace.’

  ‘We’ll find who did this.’ Why had she said that? After Bette Lawson had gone, it occurred to Stella that Helen Honeysett had upset Bette very much indeed. If you had nothing to lose, that might be a motive for murder.

  *

  Stella sat at her desk. She never made rash promises to cleaning clients and this case was the hardest one they’d had. No body, a clutch of suspects and all the time the possibility that the killer was a random stranger long gone from the towpath.

  Stella was startled out of her train of thought by Beverly. She tripped merrily into the room. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Have you found Neville Rowlands?’

  ‘Yes!’ Beverly looked briefly deflated that her thunder had been stolen.

  Stella sat up straight. ‘That’s great, Bev.’

  ‘I came up with a plan about what to say on the way there.’

  ‘On the way where?’

  ‘To see Neville Rowlands.’

  ‘On your own?’ Stella exclaimed, horrified.

  ‘Yes of course.’ Beverly tossed back her hair with affected nonchalance. ‘When he answered I said “Oh no, I’ve lost my cat!” I was practically crying! He said he hadn’t seen it. Which was true obviously and he said I should stick a notice on lamp-posts! He was nice about it.’ Beverly flung back in her chair. ‘But he didn’t invite me in.’

  ‘You’ve lost your cat?’ Stella didn’t think Beverly had a cat.

  ‘I don’t!’ Beverly hugged herself. ‘I went undercover!’

  ‘Bev, you must be careful!’ Stella jumped up and pulled her jacket off the coat stand. ‘How did you know it was Rowlands?’

  ‘I asked his name.’ Beverly was looking at Stella strangely. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone a nasty colour. Get in the recovery position.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Stella gripped the coat stand. ‘Bev, listen to me. That man might be a
murderer, you should not have gone to see him by yourself!’

  ‘Murderer! Yeh right. He was like my granddad. A total sweetie!’

  *

  Beverly had said Neville Rowlands was renting a bedsit in Hammersmith. Stella had been disturbed to see his address was right round the corner from Aldensley Road where her ex, David, lived.

  She parked the van in a free ticket bay, halfway along the road. Rowlands’ was the only house in the street that had escaped the gentrification of wrought-iron railings, elaborate trelliswork, renovated tiles or the inevitable basement excavation. The next-door house was boxed behind hoardings advertising the Bargain Basement Company.

  A sagging picket fence enclosed cracked hard standing that was scattered with sweet wrappers, takeaway cups and other rubbish. The centrepiece was a rusting motorbike draped in filthy tarpaulin. Yellowed ice had frozen in dips in the plastic, the tyre on a protruding wheel was flat, the rubber rotting. The house was as dilapidated as the one on the towpath, but lacked a Gothic feel. Cream pebbledash stucco was cracked and engrained with dirt. A sheet was draped across the downstairs window. The front door was a faded red with a peeling notice saying ‘No Junk Mail’.

  None of the bells said ‘Rowlands’. Stella checked the address. Beverly had written ‘motorbike’ under the postcode. It was the right place.

  There was a bell on the other side of the door. It had a light and looked newer than the others, but no name. If it was Neville Rowlands’, he couldn’t get many visitors. Perhaps he didn’t want them. Stella rang it.

  The elderly man who answered the door – Stella estimated him to be late sixties – was smart in an ironed shirt and black suit trousers. His shoes were scuffed. This didn’t particularly surprise her. Stella had clients whose homes were pristine, but their lavatory needed cleaning. Rowlands’ comb-over was oiled and he was freshly shaven. Apparently retired, he was kitted out as if for the office. Stella had said to Jack that murderers came in all guises. Beverly was spot on, Rowlands could be anyone’s respectable granddad.

  ‘Neville Rowlands?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Rowlands was in the shadow of a hallway that smelled identical to the entrance to Clean Slate.

  ‘Stella Darnell. I’m a private detective. I believe you used to live at number 1 Thames Cottages?’ On the way, Stella had decided on a direct approach. ‘Could I talk to you about Helen Honeysett? I understand you were her neighbour in 1987. The year she vanished. Would it be possible to come in or would you like to choose a more convenient time?’

  Rowlands regarded her with a penetrating gaze. His eyes were an intense brown that gave nothing away. ‘I’m not sure how I can help you. I talked to the police and to the press. I don’t know anything new.’

  Stella knew the smoothly pleasant tone. It was the voice of the man on the towpath. It was the voice of the dog walker she’d met on the towpath with Jack. The man who had passed her without greeting after she’d been with Jane Drake. The man who had been walking with a dog lead, but no dog.

  She’d been in too much of a hurry to bring Jack – stupid. They were a team and, besides, she’d just torn a strip off Beverly for coming on her own. Rowlands was capable of sneaking into Latimer’s house and waging a campaign of revenge. At least Beverly and Jackie knew where she was. But Jack should be here; this was their case.

  ‘I’d like to hear your perspective.’ Stella moved away from the door, a counter-intuitive tactic that worked with Stanley when she wanted him to drop a ball. It worked now.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Stella followed Rowlands up a dingy staircase to the top of the house. He had a stoop. She felt her blood chill. He was the towpath man. There was no sound from any of the doors they passed. Was she alone with Rowlands?

  The landing was lit by weak light trickling in from a grubby skylight.

  ‘Do excuse my tiny living quarters. However, I can offer you tea.’ Rowlands unlocked a door and ushered her into what was indeed a small room. It had a bleak outlook over rooftops that Stella, her sense of direction as acute as her sense of smell, guessed were the houses in Aldensley Road. Rowlands snatched something from a cupboard by a divan that must make up into his bed and shoved it underneath. He invited her to sit and asked if she’d like a drink.

  Stella accepted tea because it would mean he had to leave the room. As soon as he’d gone downstairs, she leapt up and quelling guilt – as a cleaner she never looked at people’s things – eased open an alcove cupboard. A scent wafted out. Her stomach swooped. Gillette Splash Cool Wave. The brand preferred by her father, and Martin Cashman. Was this one of Jack’s signs? She must not let the man’s choice of aftershave lull her into a false sense of trust. This was the man who had attempted to terrorize Natasha Latimer.

  Inside was a rack of ironed shirts, arranged in colour order, from left to right, pastel blues, greens and stark white. Stella approved. Three ties hung over a rail on the back of the door, dark red, dark blue and black. No other shoes. Rowlands was a man of simple tastes. In two narrow drawers she found black socks, paired and balled up, and neatly folded underwear. Rowlands favoured Y-fronts. She made herself feel beneath the garments. She had no idea what she was looking for. She was used to removing the contents of drawers and cupboards when doing a thorough clean, but she never looked at the items she took out. This felt very wrong indeed.

  In the other alcove on a shelf was a faded set of Everyman volumes. Fixed to the wall above was a coin-operated electric meter half shrouded by a strip of loose wallpaper that had lifted away from damp plaster. The radiator in front of a fire­place blocked with pegboard was cold. Whatever pay-off Latimer had given Rowlands, it wasn’t enough to rent somewhere more com­fortable. But anything in what was quaintly called Brackenbury Village would be pricey.

  No dust. Stella caught the faintest whiff of beeswax polish and noted the brush marks on the carpet. Rowlands was house-proud. Daphne Merry would approve of the lack of clutter.

  She felt a stab of doubt. What was she doing here? Even if he did admit to coming into Latimer’s house, she wasn’t going to press charges. They had nothing to link him to the night Helen Honeysett vanished beyond proximity and a weak alibi.

  She took out her phone and keyed in Clean Slate’s number. It seemed overkill, but she’d promised Jackie to call if needed.

  Rowlands had hidden something under the divan. Aware that any moment he would come back, Stella got down on the floor and ran her fingers along the gap between the divan and the lino-covered floor. No dust. In a hurry, she pushed whatever it was further under. She used her phone to bat it out, but only propelled it away. Sweat pricked her brow. It took three minutes to boil a kettle and make a cup of tea.

  She crammed her hand right under the divan and, ignoring a graze – from a splinter or a tack – got a purchase and managed to manoeuvre the object out. It was a small silver frame. Inside was a grainy black-and-white photograph. It was of a young woman, her features clouded by another figure. The print had been double-exposed. Stella examined it. It wasn’t double-exposed: the picture had been shot through glass, a window perhaps, and the superimposed figure was the reflection of the photog­ra­pher holding the camera. The woman hadn’t known her picture was being taken. Something about her rang a bell.

  Rowlands had hidden the picture from her. Already guilty for rooting in his clothes cupboard, she scooted the frame back where she’d found it. She sent it too far to the back. He would know she’d seen it. With a jolt, Stella knew that Rowlands expected her to search his room. He had set her a trap and she had been caught.

  On a cupboard beside the divan was an old-fashioned travel­ling alarm clock and another framed black-and-white photograph. A young man in regimental dress of buckled tunic, cradling a bearskin, was arm in arm with a woman in a bridal gown clasping a posy of flowers. The couple looked timid, their smiles rictus.

  ‘My parents,’ Neville Rowlands said. ‘My father died weeks after that was taken. Not in the war. He was r
un over by a tram on Chiswick High Road in 1951, the year I was born. My mother never got over it.’ Handing Stella a mug of tea, he murmured, ‘I hope I made it the right colour for you.’

  Stella hadn’t heard Rowlands come upstairs or open the door. Her heart thumping, she assured him the tea was perfect. She could see how he had moved around Latimer’s house undetected.

  Rowlands sat down at the other end of the divan, his legs crossed. He hadn’t made himself tea. ‘You want to know about Helen Honeysett.’

  ‘I’m talking to everyone who lived at Thames Cottages in 1987,’ Stella told him.

  ‘As I said, I’m not sure how I can help.’

  Stella put her mug on the little cupboard and got her Filofax from her rucksack. She had been going to ask how long he’d lived in the street, but opted instead for a Jack question: ‘Did you like Helen Honeysett?’

  Impassive, Rowlands flicked an invisible speck off the knee of his trousers. He was stalling.

  ‘If I’m honest I didn’t care for her. Too brash for my taste, but that was the way of the young in the eighties. Mrs Honeysett wasn’t afraid to come right out with what she thought.’

  ‘What did she think?’

  ‘She told me, “Your mum’s got you clamped in a vice. Get out, find a sexy young thing and have the time of your life!”’ Glancing at the wedding picture, Rowlands blinked rapidly as if confessing to the woman with the posy.

  ‘How did you take that?’

  ‘She was right. But Mother needed me. Besides, I didn’t want to leave the street.’ Without expanding on this, Rowlands got up and went to the cupboard.

  Stella’s blood went cold. A scrap of pastel green cloth was poking out. She must have caught one of his shirts in the doors.

  Apparently unconcerned, Rowlands released the fabric, smoothed the shirt and shut the door. He returned to the divan and, gazing out of the window at the white-grey sky, asked, ‘Who wants you to investigate this case?’