‘Since you were such good friends, why didn’t Mrs Ramsay tell you that she lied to the police about Kate Rokesmith?’
‘As I keep saying, we have private lives. Perhaps she might have, had she not died.’ Jack swept snow from the statue’s head. ‘Although I doubt it. Isabel was made of steel and rigorous in committing nothing to paper.’ As he worked, more snow fell, undermining his efforts.
‘What makes you sure she didn’t write stuff down?’
‘I didn’t find anything. No letters, cards, journal nor notebook: Isabel Ramsay was the sort of woman to write about her every move; she fascinated herself and would imagine her children fascinated after she was gone, but there wasn’t even an appointments diary.’
‘I didn’t say you could sort her papers. That was not part of the brief.’
‘Terry solved his cases with a squirt of polish and a buff of a duster, did he?’ Jack swished snow from the outstretched arms with one of Stella’s gloves. ‘If we want to learn stuff, we have to be nosy.’
‘Terry didn’t solve this case.’
‘Rather than protecting Hugh Rokesmith, my guess is she was protecting her own husband. She was always grumbling about Mark Ramsay. You knew that. She wouldn’t believe he was dead.’
‘Protecting him from what?’ Stella retorted. ‘Her husband was a professor, a doctor.’
‘Doctors kill people. Take Harold Shipman.’
‘I know they do.’ Stella was on her feet. ‘He wasn’t interviewed because he was at work at midday.’ She stamped about, churning up snow, to get feeling back in her toes. ‘My money’s still on Rokesmith. Will you leave that bloody concrete monstrosity, you’re not making any difference.’
‘We already decided Rokesmith had no motive.’ Jack ignored Stella’s outburst. ‘What about Mark Ramsay, since midday has been discounted?’
‘I read he was at work at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery. You’re setting up dummies.’
‘And Paul, did you check him out?’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ Stella huffed. ‘I think Rokesmith was having an affair and wanted Kate out the way, the oldest reason in the book.’
‘We have no evidence.’ Jack put Stella’s glove back on. ‘He never remarried.’
‘What does that prove? Nor would I if I’d murdered my wife.’
Jack scuffed at the ground with his boot. ‘This is where the boy was found.’
‘This is where we’ll be found if we stay any longer.’ Stella moved to the edge of the clearing. They were in the middle of London beside a major road, but it might have been in a remote wood insulated from the world by thick snow and dense bushes.
‘Hugh Rokesmith lived under a cloud of suspicion all his life. Commissions for work ran out except the occasional job at a derisory price and so-called friends stopped phoning. Women were still interested, the kind that correspond with murderers in prison. By the time he died he was, like Isabel Ramsay, a recluse. His cancer would have been treatable had he gone to the doctor sooner.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘It’s all there on the internet.’
‘It’s not.’
‘The Leaning Woman took care of the boy.’ Jack walked around the plinth. ‘See these lines?’
Faint marks had been painted on the concrete.
‘They represent the jointing of a carcase.’ Jack trailed his gloved finger over the woman’s stomach, making marks of his own in the new snow. ‘We are looking for a man with a mind that could do this because such a mind killed Katherine Rokesmith.’
‘What makes you so definite that man wasn’t her husband?’ In the poor light Jack looked older. Stella realized she had never actually established his age. It was not on his form. He was still talking:
‘…Rokesmith gained nothing. She wasn’t insured and had no money. Her death shattered him and he was lumbered with the son. On top of that he had to live with the world’s certainty that he was the culprit.’
‘He didn’t do much to prove otherwise.’
‘If you are not guilty you don’t have tracks to cover.’
‘Not like you.’ Against her better judgement Stella blurted out: ‘How innocent are you? Why are you so interested?’ She retreated to the gap in the privet.
‘I was Jonathan Rokesmith’s friend.’ Jack spoke to the Lady.
‘What sort of friend? Where is he now?’
‘We were at school together.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Jonny’s dead.’
‘You’re too old!’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled grimly. ‘We are the same age. He would be thirty-three now. Same age as Jesus when he was crucified.’
‘Why wasn’t Jonathan Rokesmith’s death in the news?’
‘The Rokesmiths aren’t news. There have been other murders, other murderers.’
‘So you snoop into people’s lives and steal their identities for the sake of a dead friend?’
‘The best detective thinks like a murderer, didn’t your dad tell you that?’ He smiled briefly. ‘Call it unfinished business.’
‘Terry was not the best detective.’
Jack had played games with her. Stella turned on her heel. He could follow her or stay talking nonsense in the icy cold: it was up to him.
They heard a sound; it could have been a gust of wind blowing snow off a branch, but the second time it was further away. Footsteps. Jack pushed past her and sprinted out to the road.
There was no one going towards the square or the other way along the north side of Black Lion Lane. Then came the drone of an engine and a brake light sparkled on the camber at the far end.
‘This ground was virgin.’ Jack pointed. Apart from their tracks there was another set of indistinct prints along the pavement by the bushes, leading to where they had seen the car.
‘These are forefoot-struck,’ Stella announced.
‘What?’
‘Whoever made them landed on the ball of their foot rather than their heel, which is more common.’ She straightened up: ‘I use my heel and so do you. The heels on your shoes are worn while the front part of the soles are only scratched.’
‘Are you suggesting that, like Hugh Rokesmith, I can be in two places at once?’
‘I said that this person uses the front of their foot, didn’t I? Besides, I’m your alibi. If we can’t trust each other…’ Stella began to walk back to Rose Gardens North, speaking over her shoulder: ‘Someone was on the other side of those bushes, they must have heard everything.’
‘We might be closer than we think.’ Jack’s voice was almost inaudible.
‘Here, take Terry’s keys and let yourself in, I’ll be back.’
‘You trust me now?’
‘I must be mad.’
‘Where are you going?’ Jack’s hair tufted at the back like a child’s after napping in a cot. ‘You’re not bottling out, are you?’
‘No, I am not.’ Stella snapped. ‘I have to sort something.’
31
He might have slipped on the ice, she admonished him. He was too old to take risks.
The snow had given him away, crunching underfoot. If there had been no snow he would have been able to hear what they were saying. She admitted that snow made the place deathly quiet when he was away; a blanket of white suffocating her. Desperate to keep her smiling he continued, divulging too much.
They were talking about the Rokesmiths, he told her. The man was Jonathan Rokesmith’s friend. They both knew that Jonathan only had one friend and he was called Simon.
He could see the subject upset her and he tried to come up with another: she loved to hear the tales of his day. On summer evenings, sitting out on the terrace, they mixed gin and tonics and watched the rooks; fewer nests this year. He associated her with sunshine and told her so.
He would have to go. He called a goodbye up the stairs. She would probably demand that he come up to the bedroom and kiss her but she did not reply. This had not happened before so he went up anyway and pop
ped his head around the door.
She was smiling. He kissed her long and tenderly and then left the room without looking back.
He let himself out by the back door. It would not be long before he returned.
And with her new television, she would hardly notice he was gone.
32
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Stella found the car immediately. She got out of the van and inspected it: the bonnet was cold, the windscreen hidden beneath a thick layer of snow that sparkled blue in the moonlight. It was still snowing, meaning Paul could have returned as little as twenty minutes ago and the car would look like this.
Paul Bramwell lived in a 1980s block off the Goldhawk Road that consisted of two buildings forming an ‘L’ shape surrounded by bushes and shrubs. One element of whatever Paul and Stella had shared had been the communal gardening days. Stella had surprised herself by rather enjoying taking part in planting, clipping and pruning along with Paul’s elderly neighbours; more than he had done himself. Terry’s gardening books, unopened on her living room shelf until then, had finally come in handy.
There were no footprints to the front entrance but again this would be because it was snowing.
She had not wanted Paul’s key and had only agreed to keep it in case he locked himself out.
Paul would not credit her with reading clues and reaching a conclusion; he would not expect her. Stella was both relieved and surprised that he had not confronted them by the statue.
His flat was on the second floor. Music was thumping from the flat opposite. Paul could sleep through anything, although Stella doubted that he would be asleep. He would be planning his next move. He might not be there; he might be at her flat. Briefly she let herself appreciate the irony of each of them spying on the other before remembering that she had seen his car.
She turned the key and slipped inside.
There were three bedrooms. Paul used the box room for playing online games and mending computers. She could hear fans whirring in servers and laptops ranged on a rack.
The kitchen had a serving hatch through which Stella would catch Paul watching her while he prepared supper as she sat in the living room. Over steak and oven chips he would confess how special it was to have her there and she must treat it as her home. Stella had not known how to.
The table was a mess of plates and dishes of half-eaten food. Paul never cleared up after a meal; not wanting to spoil the mood he left the crockery to soak beneath a film of greasy water overnight. At first, drawn in by his skill in networking her office computers, his boyish charm and their agreement that there were ‘no strings’, Stella had gone along with it, but soon her anxiety at the task burgeoning in the sink overwhelmed her attraction to Paul and she would rush out to clear the kitchen.
Motorcycle boots stood on the parquet floor in the hall, one balanced on the toe of the other where he had taken them off. Stella switched on the light and picked up a boot: the leather was dry. The tread on the heel was worn thin. This did not make sense.
Bags of shredded paper awaited recycling: Paul was neurotic about identity theft – another concern they had shared.
He would only just have gone to bed; he was usually up later than this, trawling the internet. He was using bed as an alibi.
The bedroom blazed with light: on every surface was a candle, lines of tea lights covered the chest of drawers and the window sill. There was a funny smell. Paul had complained of being allergic to room deodorizers. Incense sticks burned in a pot. Stella tripped on a heap of bedding at her feet.
It took a moment for Stella to comprehend the scene. Paul was naked and face down on the bed. Then she saw two more legs either side of him, the knees raised. She backed out.
She had accidently deadlocked the Yale; Paul caught up with her fumbling with the front door.
‘What are you playing at?’ He was struggling into a dressing gown.
Stella could smell him. She could smell both of them.
‘How come you are here?’
‘You were spying on me!’ Even as she spoke, Stella knew she had made a mistake. Paul had got drunk, picked up a woman and brought her back. He had used for her the romantic candle display meant for Stella. In the morning he would regret it, but he would let it slip to Stella, hoping to make her as jealous as she made him. Hoping she would change her mind and they would live happily ever after.
Stella was jealous, an all-purpose jealousy that did not belong in this bachelor flat but somewhere else out of reach.
Paul had been here all night, setting up candles, ordering a takeaway and the rest.
‘The only one spying on anyone is you, on me.’ Paul was reasonable.
‘I’m sorry,’ Stella whispered.
‘Why don’t you hurry on home to your toy boy and find him something to clean.’
Paul could not help himself and Stella allowed herself to feel vindicated.
They heard shuffling from the bedroom. Paul would have portrayed himself as a rolling stone, unattached and without baggage: Mr Cool.
‘You have been stalking me,’ Stella insisted.
‘I love you, that’s all. I’ll ask her to leave, then we can talk.’
‘You never have time, you put work first, you care more about your computers and your silly kids’ games.’ Stella did not know where the words came from. She would rather he was interested in computers than in her.
The hallway swam, the walls wafting like card; her head throbbed.
‘This is bollocks, Stella. It’s you who is always too busy.’ Paul did up his dressing gown, looking at her strangely.
She put the key on the telephone table and rushed out of the flat.
On King Street a thought filled her with dread.
If Paul was telling the truth, then someone else had been listening by the statue. Instinctively she pressed the central-locking button and checked her mirror.
Still she did not see a car behind her.
33
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Jack was in Terry’s study. He had obeyed Stella’s instructions not to turn on lights in the rest of the house and parking up she had been gratified to note that it looked from the outside as if no one was there.
Jack was lounging on Terry’s desk chair, his feet propped on an open drawer. He was examining papers from the filing wallet: car insurance schedules, MOT certificates, utility bills that Stella had set aside for probate. She dismissed the ripple of annoyance at this. As she had suggested, he had eaten a shepherd’s pie. The smell caught in her throat.
‘Did you sort Paul out?’ he said without looking up.
‘How did you know…? Yes, I spoke to him.’
‘Don’t tell me, he’d been in all night having a romantic dinner for two.’
‘Something like that.’ She leant on the sill and looked over at Mrs Ramsay’s summerhouse. In the light of the moon it looked like a house in a fairy tale. ‘It was probably a passer-by who got scared and ran away.’
‘Never believe in the obvious.’ Jack slipped the document he had been reading back in the file. He swung his feet down and trundled the chair up to the desk.
‘Have you found anything?’
‘Not so far. He was meticulous, your dad.’ Jack tapped a file box. ‘He kept his life in date order. There are art exhibition programmes with the date of his visit, bills with cheque number and date of payment. I see where you get it from.’ He clawed his hair back from his face. ‘Birth, marriage and death certificates. He’s even kept his divorce papers from 1974. Poor guy, eight years was not much of a marriage.’
The angled light heightened his pallor. Stella wished he would stop calling Terry ‘her dad’ or worse, ‘poor guy’.
‘Art exhibitions?’ she echoed.
‘Like I said, never believe the obvious.’ Jack angled the monitor to face him. ‘Have you been in his computer?
‘No.’ Stella had not come to the house since she had rushed out and she was sure Jack knew this. �
��I suppose he got it to occupy himself in his retirement.’
‘He had an occupation.’ Jack switched on the machine. The fan was loud in the quiet house and blew out the smell of scorched dust as it came to life.
‘That’s a bugger.’ A white background striped with horizontal grey and letters and digits in Courier font spread over the screen.
‘Any ideas what his password was?’
‘None.’
‘He must have had some technical know-how – this needs a BIOS password. Burglars often test a machine before nicking it and if it asks for one they tend to leave it. Only a professional can crack it. I disturbed a break-in at the Hamiltons and they dumped Michael’s laptop because it had a BIOS request.’
‘Pity you couldn’t have caught them.’
‘I did. While they were doing the bedroom I called the police from the study extension and they arrested them on their way out. I had to escape through the study, which was awkward.’
Stella knew a fantasist when she met one. Jack clearly believed what he was saying was true, so it wasn’t lying in the strictest sense. Terry put up with all sorts to get answers. She asked: ‘Why don’t people find you? I would.’
‘Yes, you would, but you’re not like other people.’ Jack tilted back the chair. ‘What was Terry’s warrant number?’
‘How should I know?’
‘I know my dad’s national insurance number and his car registration.’
‘If this is a competition, I’m happy for you to win,’ Stella retorted. ‘Why would I need to know?’
‘It would be a help now if you did.’ He tapped the keyboard. A message flashed up saying the password was wrong, try again. ‘I thought you were close to your dad.’
‘You thought wrong.’
Jack flipped through the document wallet and eased out Terry’s payslips. He ran his finger over the paper. ‘Here we are.’ He punched in a six-digit number:130253.
Password incorrect, press return for a retry.
‘It will lock us out after ten goes.’ Jack leant down and scratched his ankle. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed at the wedge of paper tucked half under the leg of the desk.
The Detective's Daughter Page 25
