The Detective's Daughter

by Lesley Thomson

  ‘I’m not due until the Dead Late… OK, an hour… Earls Court or Acton?’

  She heard the click of his shoes on the floorboards and with no time to get back up the stairs darted into the drawing room where she was upset by more chaos. The ceiling-high doors dividing the room were flung wide to create a space the length and breadth of the house and the furniture pushed aside as if for a party. Stella found the cigarette box with the initials ‘I’ and ‘M’ on its lid under the coffee table, the contents spewed over the rug. She was on her knees gathering up the cigarettes when Jack walked in; he retrieved two she had missed.

  ‘These are stale.’ He sniffed them. ‘I doubt the family wants them.’

  ‘I’m tidying.’

  ‘That was my mother on the phone. Family crisis, ’fraid I have to go.’

  ‘What sort of crisis?’

  ‘She’s locked herself out. I have a key.’

  Nettled, Stella looked pointedly at her watch. The wall clock by the tall boy had stopped at eleven. Her watch read five minutes to five; three minutes fast. They had been working for nearly five hours but she’d intended to go on until at least seven o’clock.

  Jack’s mother, it seemed, relied on him.

  ‘Do you have to go far?’

  ‘Only South Kensington.’ Jack brushed his sleeves and trousers as if dust in the house was why he was shabby. Stella could imagine this mother: absent-minded and needy. She pictured a younger Mrs Ramsay who had Jack at her beck and call. The mother might be a problem.

  ‘Do you need a lift?’ Stella liked to know the background of her staff, meet their dependants; this was as good a time as any to see Mrs Harmon.

  ‘Stamford Brook station is up the road.’

  ‘You’re OK on the Underground?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘What with your green thing, I assumed tunnels might be problematic, claustrophobia or moving fast.’ She broke her rule about personal information to offer: ‘My mother hates heights and haunts junk shops.’

  ‘Trains are fine. It’s only Pantone 375.’

  When Jack had gone the house took on a new quiet and Stella decided after all that once she had put the sheets through the machine she would go.

  She brought the bedding down and froze.

  Jack had transformed the kitchen. The black and white tiled lino gleamed; the bus-like fridge and the grubby Bakelite wall telephone looked new. He had disposed of the lilies and, eradicating their stain, had restored the sink to flawless enamel. Crockery was arranged on shelves, handles pointing in one direction. He had wiped clean the whiteboard and the junk mail was pinned in rows on the cork tiles. Jars of lentils, rice and porridge reflected the warmth of the copper cylindrical lampshade. It could have been 1968 when Mrs Ramsay was in her thirties, beautiful and important, floating about the house: the free spirit she had told Stella that she still was. Stella had not believed her; the way he had cleaned the kitchen told her that Jack had.

  As she stared at the battered kitchen table, now a feature with the garish red plastic fruit bowl in its centre, Stella saw jam-smeared children wriggling on the plastic chairs, chubby hands grabbing for bread, and heard their clamour of jokes and demands. Stella’s cleaning restored order; Jack had given the room life. She felt remorse that all this time Mrs Ramsay had not had the best.

  She crammed the sheets into the drum, tossed in a capful of liquid and chose the ‘quick wash’ programme before retreating upstairs. In contrast to Jack she had made little impression on the bedroom. She slumped on the mattress and pulled Mrs Ramsay’s bedside pile on to her lap. A torn cutting was straining the spine of Our Mutual Friend. Stella had not noticed it when she came with Cashman. She took it out and smoothed it out on the mattress. It came from the Charbury District Advertiser. Unsettled by Jack’s abrupt departure and his work in the kitchen, Stella’s energy had entirely gone.

  She caught the name Isabel Ramsay in the blurry newsprint and, sliding to the floor, her back to the bed, spread the newspaper over her knees. The entire page was devoted to the opening of Charbury’s refurbished village hall. Stella sighed at the idea that readers were prepared to plough their way through trivia such as an apple-bobbing contest and a lucky dip. Villagers had paid two pence to guess the number of marbles in a jar and Iris Rogers, the postmistress, won a Diana and Charles Wedding mug packed with delicious home-made chocolate truffles. There must have been a glut of mugs for they featured as a prize in most of the events including the cake-making competition judged by Mrs Isabel Ramsay (top right) of the White House. Mrs Ramsay had snipped the ribbon on the strike of noon after a speech by the leader of the Parish Council Geoffrey Markham. Blah blah. Stella was about to get up when she saw the picture accompanying the piece.

  A middle-aged but elegant Mrs Ramsay with scissors was in the midst of a mass of faces – smiling, stern, laughing – all gazing at her. A church clock peeping out from behind her shoulder confirmed the time. A string of bunting slanted across the photograph beneath which a caption read: To the manor born: Mrs Ramsay launches Charbury’s new village hall.

  Stella’s mind was racing. There was no date, the paper was torn and the opening paragraph splodged with a sticky substance like raspberry jam. Stella turned it over and found two half-page adverts: one for the sale of beds at a shop in Seaford, the other for a car dealership in Brighton: X-rated! Honeymoon in a brand-new X-reg Ford Escort. Drive off the forecourt now!

  Terry had taught her registration plates. The date of the car sale was Saturday, 8 August, but gave no year. Registrations used to come in on 1 August. She counted on her fingers: her first car, a 1977 Datsun Sunny, was ‘S’, there was no ‘U’ so ‘X’ was 1981. She was being stupid: that explained the wedding mugs, the street party had celebrated the marriage of Lady Diana to Prince Charles on Wednesday, 29 July that year.

  Two days after Kate was murdered.

  Mrs Ramsay had made a comment on that final Friday morning to which Stella had paid no attention; rushing to her meeting in Chelsea, she had no patience to listen to how Mrs Ramsay was delayed by Geoffrey and his silly shoes: another of Mrs Ramsay’s batty remarks. She had been trying to tell Stella about that Monday in 1981.

  Stella read the article properly, absorbing information that seconds ago she had dismissed as dull. Mrs Ramsay – wife of renowned local Professor Mark Ramsay – had opened Charbury’s village hall on Monday lunchtime. The Ramsays had lived at the White House since before Queen Victoria ascended the throne and had been opening buildings and fêtes in the village for generations. The family had funded a stained-glass window, the church roof and Charbury’s reading room, now defunct.

  Councillor Geoffrey Markham had slipped on the steps and ripped his trousers and grazed his knee. This was linked to the royal couple because Prince Charles had slipped going into St Paul’s Cathedral for his wedding rehearsal.

  Far below, the washing machine banged and thrummed its way to the climax of the spin cycle and was shaking to a stop when Stella reached the kitchen. She slung the sheets across two clothes horses in the children’s playroom; tomorrow she would fold them and stow them in the airing cupboard. Gina Cross would ask her to throw them away.

  She was hungry and thought wistfully of Terry’s shepherd’s pies.

  Terry.

  The newspaper was where she had left it, on the rush matting beside the bed. She held it up to the light and studied the photograph: Mrs Ramsay wore a light-coloured dress and short jacket. Stella rushed back to the hall and tipped everything out of her rucksack.

  The torn scrap she had extracted from the drain cover outside the Seaford Co-op had dried to the texture of brittle parchment. Despite the footprint across the picture she confirmed instantly that it was a photocopy of the article in the Charbury District Advertiser.

  The house was back to normal: from the landing came the ticking of the grandfather clock and up in the sitting room the Swiss clock on the mantelpiece once again told the correct time. She faced Mrs Ram
say’s chair and heard the old lady’s voice chatting on, making no sense:

  ‘Delayed by a broken sole, truth be told… one does one’s best…’

  Stella pulled herself together and punched in Jack’s number on her phone; it went to voicemail. She left a message to call her urgently, frustrated that his mother’s problems meant he did not even answer.

  If Mrs Ramsay was in Sussex at midday on Monday, 27 July 1981, she could not, fifteen minutes earlier, have waved to Kate Rokesmith in St Peter’s Square.

  There was only one explanation: Isabel Ramsay had lied to the police.

  25

  He had said he would not be long. She did not like him going but had too much pride to tell him and he put up with the silent treatment because it was better than her not minding at all, which would mean she did not care about him. He thought of inviting her, but they got on better in the house; their private world. She approved of the flowers.

  He seldom went after dark. Night was an obvious time – no one would intrude – but she said that night was precisely when those intent on spoiling it would come.

  He propped up the fresh bouquet and wedged it with the flint, as she said. He had asked for the flowers to be gift-wrapped this time as a surprise.

  ‘No, just that one, thank you. The other is a present for me!’

  The assistant had unfurled ribbon from a roller, using silver without consulting him. He supposed choosing colours kept the job interesting because even selling beautiful, fragrant blooms must pall.

  She nipped tape from a dispenser, queuing strips on the counter, using them one by one to swaddle the flowers in cellophane and tissue, curling the ribbons with the scissor blade – one, two, three, four – performing the procedure with expertise born of repetition. With mild ceremony she handed him the finished object.

  In the street passing women smiled; a man with flowers attracts feminine approval.

  The other flowers had died, but he wouldn’t mention it, she couldn’t bear death. He had left footprints so kicked up snow to make it look as if children had been playing and then went up the slope, criss-crossing to other graves to further confuse.

  He bundled the dead flowers up in the paper and stuffed them in the bin by the lych gate. It was snowing hard which meant that soon his mess of prints around the graves would be undulations, his effort to disguise them unnecessary.

  He had promised he would not be long and had been away five minutes. Most people would not think that much, but she could not bear to be without him.

  26

  Friday, 14 January 2011

  Jack stood on the platform at Earls Court and consulted his duty book. The spiral-bound wad of pages, with a picture on the cover of a red and silver District line train, was encased in plastic so scratched with use the train seemed to come out of a fog.

  The pages held the details of every shift on the District line for the year: times of trains in tiny print, set to the half-minute. Only when Jack was driving would he submit to the constraints of measured time. The public had no knowledge of this timetable, aware only of what the electronic boards announced: a train was due in three minutes or ten or ‘Approaching’ with a distant roar and a dusty breeze from the tunnel.

  He confirmed the set number of the 11.13 and 30 seconds pick-up. It was ‘277’. He had no need to ponder what the figures meant, yet he felt afraid. Was he one of those hunters he despised, who live not for capture, but for the hunt itself? When the prey was in sight he wanted to drive his train into a tunnel and ignore the signs. No, he was not one of those, he told himself. He would not shirk his task.

  Jack stayed behind the bright yellow gate on the platform’s edge, clutching his driver’s key. He grew excited, believing that Wednesday night’s crack in the pavement had indeed been a sign. When the open cab door slid to a stop precisely next to where he stood, Jack was a god and ready for what would come next.

  Jack eased the handle forward and his train slid into the brick tunnel. As the curved roof passed overhead, he allowed himself to think about his day. ‘Tired, cold or hungry?’ his mother would say when he grizzled in his pushchair, presumably unable to conceive of a child being anything other than these three conditions. He was rarely hungry. Out at night, he was cold, but was used to it. He had never spent so long in the company of someone else. He was tired.

  He had not liked leaving Isabel’s house so abruptly. What luck it was that Stella had been upstairs when his telephone rang; she had not heard his conversation. These days the Underground was demanding more; he would have liked to walk away except he depended on his times deep below London with only the bricks and the lines for company.

  Jack had enjoyed cleaning Isabel’s kitchen; it did not nullify her death, but did soothe. He had been aware of Stella two flights above; would she tell him if she found anything? She was not the sharing type.

  He pulled into the station and in the monitor saw a man and a woman boarding different cars; the night-time rush was over. Once more up to Upminster then to Earls Court and home, except that since leaving Michael and Ellen Hamilton’s he had no home.

  Jack Harmon had told Stella the truth; he did not know why the colour green – Pantone 375 – provoked such violent symptoms.

  He mulled on the other colour in Stella’s branding: Pantone 277. He had hidden his shock well when she told him: twenty-seven and seven didn’t take working out; the signs were thick and fast. Today the set number for the relief train was 652 and as was often the case it had not immediately communicated anything.

  He took the train along the open track after Ravenscourt Park towards Stamford Brook. This was his favourite part of the journey. Jack loved the tunnels, but he also appreciated the long vista at this point. The stations with the highest death rate are those near mental institutions. This was a good place: a Piccadilly train passes the unprotected platform at Stamford Brook at speed; no driver can stop in time.

  None of the drivers referred to their shifts as journeys; they were shifts for which they were remunerated, but for Jack every minute counted, every mile travelled was progress.

  It was one o’clock in the morning when Jack came out on to Earls Court Road. He avoided the crack in the paving that had got him the other night. Half an hour later he cut under the Hammersmith flyover, dodging between the supports where with no snow it was easier to walk.

  There was no green to bother him at night. Jack remembered the light blue: Pantone 277 and got it: the two colours, 277 plus 375, added up to 652: tonight’s set number.

  He was getting hotter.

  He entered Furnival Gardens and skated along the icy path to Hammersmith Terrace, singing softly:

  ‘This is the dog that worried the cat

  That killed the rat that ate the malt

  That lay in the house that Jack built.’

  Outside Sarah Glyde’s house, by the Bell Steps, he turned on his phone; Stella had left a message asking him to call. He turned to page 141 of his A–Z. The next page in his quest took him to Biggin Hill. Too late tonight, but with so many signs he must persevere; he texted that he had to take his mother to Biggin Hill and switched his phone to voicemail.

  With insistent stealth, snow fell over the sleeping city, rendering it timeless. No one saw a tall, loping figure, hands in the pockets of a long black coat, enter the subway tunnel that came out beside the statue of the Leaning Woman.

  27

  Monday, 17 January 2011

  Stella went by train after work to meet Ivan Challoner. It was seven thirty and, waiting on the platform at Hammersmith, she regretted accepting his dinner invitation. Then she recalled the piano music, the peace and lack of complication and was pleased she had agreed. Ivan was, she guessed, about the same age as Paul, who would be fifty this year, but being wiser he seemed older.

  The indicator board flashed up: ‘Train Approaching’.

  Boarding, Jack Harmon came into her mind. He had not been available to help her at 48 St Peter’s Square on Saturday and
had not returned her calls for two days. Had she interviewed him she would have been explicit that she expected flexibility and availability and established his other commitments, making it clear where Clean Slate was on the priority list. He had not signed a contract and behaved as if she was lucky to have him. She had no idea when she might next see him. She dialled him again and left a snappish message insisting he be at the Ramsay house by eight the next morning – Tuesday just in case he was unclear – and resisted adding ‘Or else’ because she was not sure what the ‘else’ would be. She had called Gina Cross and told her they would be finished in a week. She hoped that was true.

  On Friday morning Jack had spoken as if they were detectives capable of solving a murder together. Then he had vanished.

  She wanted to tell him about the photograph and that Isabel Ramsay had not seen Kate Rokesmith when she said she had which meant there was no firm sighting of the murdered woman and alibis needed to be revisited. Despite her striving for an open mind, it meant that more than ever it was likely Hugh Rokesmith was the killer. Hugh Rokesmith had been at his office that morning but said he had popped back at ten to change and left at ten thirty. Because Mrs Ramsay was supposed to have seen Kate alive at eleven forty-five, the interval after Rokesmith left his house and arrived at his mother’s did not in the end count. The truly grey area had been when he popped out for wine around midday. Now, everything was up for grabs: the article had effectively torpedoed his alibi. The window of opportunity was flung wide.

  The only person with a solid alibi was Mrs Ramsay: she had been in Sussex that Monday and there again for the royal wedding party on the Wednesday; it was unlikely she returned to London in between. Yet she had lied, so had to be a suspect of sorts.